Divine Intervention
by St.st.stutter
Summary: He's a successful businessman whose past and demons just caught up with him. She's a princess who's been from the palace to the streets and from the streets to barely hanging on. Oh yeah, and there's the small matter of being pregnant. Currently rewriting
1. Prologue: The Sunshine Never Comes

_Author's Note:  
_Wow. So, this is actually me, here with a chaptered story.  
Be... kind. This is my first attempt at a real story, so we'll see how it goes.

I wrote it a bit ago, I've been sitting on it for a while. So, it might be slightly smooshed. No worries, though.  
You might dislike the premise, but give it a chance. I do think it's fairly interesting.

The prologue was originally a crazy one-shot, but I just kept writing. And... well. Here's what happens.  
I'd really love to know what you think about it, but fact is, I'll just post it, regardless of people's liking it or not liking it. xD  
It can be rather confusing. Sorry 'bout that. xD If you have any questions, just let me know. I think you can enjoy it better when you know what's going on. 8D

I'm aware it's not amazing. I do think the writing gets better as I got older, edited, etc. Just, please please please pleeeease trust me when I say that it does indeed get better than this—I simply don't have the time to give this a total rehaul.

I s'pose this _could_ be rated M, but I doubt it. I'd just put a disclaimer out for **attempted** (note the attempted) rape-slash-assault-slash-molesting-slash-whatever you want to call it. If it bothers you, I'd suggest you don't read. (Honestly, there's nothing very graphic.) And there's some censored cursing. Like. Once. Or something. So it's a definite T.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters. Except for him.

_Note: Different writing style than usual. If you see grammatical errors, they're probably supposed to be there. But you can lemme know about them anyway._

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* * *

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**Divine Intervention  
**

**...**

_i. the sunshine never comes._

...

* * *

...

_push you cross that line,_  
_just stay down this time._  
_hide in yourself,_  
_crawl in yourself..._

_**you'll have your time.**_

...

* * *

...

I swear. I didn't think—I never imagined—I mean, all I know I said my life was boring, and I know I inferred that someone—as I shook my fist at the sky—should do something about it, or something, but honestly—I didn't think—

I didn't think.

...

* * *

...

I hiccup and sniffle, sending a glob of snot rolling down my throat.

"T-thanks, Reno." Sniffle-choke-sob. I hate my noises, but I can't help it. I also can't blame him for looking weirded out. I would be. I am, actually.

"Yuffie…?" So tentative—unlike his personality, usual habits, and anything else about the (ex?)Turk. Choke-sob-sniffle. "Yes?" I cough into my napkin. His eyebrows pucker together—even _they_ don't want to continue his current thought process. "Urm. Just thought you might want to tell me—y'know, if anything's up. I mean—you're a tough palooie (_what does that even mean?_)—I don't see you crying a lot. So I figure something must be up." Brilliant deduction, Einstein. "So, just wanted to know if you wanted to spill—something other than snot and tears, of course." Too late for that, Buster. You got snot on you if you want it or not.

"N-no. You'll-you'll-you'll…" I trail off. What would he do? I don't know. But after all he's done, I can't imagine him condemning me for this. Heck, I can't condemn me for this—how could he?

"You won't un-understand." I finish, unsure of my own words.

His eyes widen, and I immediately know what he thinks by that little, 'ohhh' he let out.

What he thinks, of course, is completely wrong.

"And _no!_" I say too fiercely, worrying my napkin in my hands. "No! It's not—it's not… 'womanly issues.'" My voice is much too loud for the confined space, and the words, the lie "womanly issues" mocks me with every echo. Luckily it only lasts for a couple seconds, before I'm distracted by his eyebrow cocking. It speaks loud and clear, although he doesn't say anything; it says, "Oh really?"

Well. No, not really. It is a womanly issue, I suppose—but I know what issues he's thinking of, and they're certainly not my real issues. And if he's actually thinking of my real issues, I'm going to punch his lights out for actually considering something so low of me.

Not that I am that low, even though it is my situation—I swear, I'm not so low—I don't really know except that I know that _this is not my fault._ I didn't do anything to deserve this—I know this. This. Was not. My. Fault.

_Was. Not._

Was not, will never be.

My mind scoffs. But how could it not be? Only such a wicked, wicked girl—I let out another rafter-rattling howl, and hugged myself, rocking back and forth.

Whatever I was crying about before, the non-reason—it's certainly gone now.

...

* * *

...

I tend to watch people go by a lot, just wondering. Wondering what it would be like if they were in my position. I know _I'd_ go over to them, absolutely, completely, totally, and help them out. I'd give them a get-out-of-jail free card—I'd rub them on their back and let them bawl. I wouldn't walk by, definitely not. I'd see the unshed tears in their eyes and—Oh, Leviathan. Doing it again—right. Sorry.

And after I promised me that I wouldn't keep going on. Darn.

That makes total broken promises of mine to me two: I swore that I'd never annihilate my enemy in Rise of Nations again—down to the last building and citizen. I'd only slightly conquer them, leaving them their livelihoods and just their lives in general.

And I had actually believed me on that one—what a sucker _I_ am!

I shiver in the chilly November air, pulling my oversized black wrap around me. (So what if it engulfs me in black, woolish material? It's comfy.)

There's something funny about familiarity. Something weird about the kinship I feel to the people who don't know me, but the people I've seen walking this route each day. Why do they go where they go? What are they doing here? What are they going through? Most importantly, are they rich, and is so, where is their freakin' wallet?

But more important than all that stuff, is the warm, fuzziness I get when I see him go by. That tragic, sacred kinship of aloneness that binds us, even though he doesn't know it. Except that I don't see any fear in him, but that's all I see in me—a scared, alone little girl. We've actually met eyes a couple times. I wonder if he wonders about me like I do him.

I wonder what it'd be like, one day, to actually talk to him.

And I know how ridiculous it is to think about people you don't even know, but I've always had a vivid imagination, and I need some way to pass the time.

...

* * *

...

My life has taken too many breaks, I decide, as I resolutely scrub, scrub, scrub the glasses. But so has my mind, I also decide, and I don't know what I'm doing here, I don't know _why_ I'm here at all, and I don't know _what_ possessed me to go look for a job. Must've been ****** logic.

After all, gotta learn to support myself, right? Right? Wrong.

But that's beside the point. So what if I may have lived some of my life mooching off of my father and my country? That is so obviously over now, and I don't regret it, and I don't wish I had some wonderfully steaming hot dumplings right now.

To punctuate, stomach growl. Stomach gladly obliges, and I glance at Sir Boss. He glances up at me, cocks a nearly white but blonde eyebrow, and glances back down at his papers. I frown, but I try. "Sir? It's been nearly five hours, and I'm really hungry. Can I take a break?"

He sighs, and I honestly can see, deep down, he's not such a bad person. He's just misguided. Heck—I need to eat too. "Look, just finish the dishes, then you can go home."

Would if help if I told him I _had_ nowhere to go?

Would it help if I screamed it?

...

* * *

...

"I can do all types of work. Really. I just need a room for the night—I'll do housekeeping to pay for it—really. Anything." I mentally ticked this off the list—I said "really" too many times.

Maybe it's the desperation in my eyes, or the oversized, stretched-out black wrap I'm wearing, but the Angel gives me a sympathetic look, and hands me a key. "Room 38."

I nearly cry with relief.

...

* * *

...

I wake up the next morning, shake a spider out of my hair, and open the curtains. The blocky mass of Edge greets me with a slap to the face and a witchy cackle. "Lovely." I mumble, turning to my first duty.

The shower is passable and workable, and I'm clean and fresh and starving in a matter of ten minutes. The tooth brushing is a bit harder—I honestly don't want to put that foul water anywhere near my mouth, but eventually I decide that I can't afford a cavity, and I brush them.

The Angel downstairs merely laughs when I ask her what she wanted me to do. "It's a gift." She responds.

I literally could kiss her—not that I'm into that sort of stuff—with her angelically white smile, and those piercing green-blue eyes. What is she doing here? She should be a supermodel, or a benevolent Mother Teresa. Nevermind that she's wearing pink—I never really liked the color—right now, she is my favorite person in the world.

...

* * *

...

"No. Reno, I'm not accepting your charity."

"Then ********, Yuffie, get a _job_!"

"_I have a job!_" I hiss, hugging myself harder, "******* two of them!"

Silence. He runs a hand through his hair. "Then why'd you ***** come here?"

"Because," _I have nowhere else to go._ "Be-because," _you're the only friend I have,_ "because… I'm pregnant and I'm lonely and maybe I might l—"

I stop and glance at him and frown. He's gaping. I knew this was the wrong time.

"What," he says, his words careful, "are you talking about, woman?"

"So now I'm 'woman?'" I hiss again. Turn away; don't let his expression reach you. "It's not my fault." As I wait for his reaction—the explosion I know is coming—the world just seems to fall away, and I feel the weight of it shudder down on my shoulders.

"Oh _really_? How is it not your ******* fault?" I didn't know he could screech. I turn my very weary eyes to him. When did I get so tired? "No. It's really not."

"Look, if someone went and knocked you up—and you _let_ them—" I frown, sniffle, and talk over him. "No. I didn't."

His demeanor changes suddenly—he's just got the implications of what he thinks is the case. "Oh. Oh, _Yuffie_—"

"Not-not that either."

"Then what…?"

"I didn't do anything. Honestly. I didn't." I ignore the fact that I'm crying now. "Really. I'm sor-sorry." Hiccup.

And the record sk-sk-skips, and we're playing a familiar song again.

...

* * *

...

I wasn't kidding. I don't know what happened, but I swear—it's not my fault.

I didn't do anything.

How can this happen if I didn't ****** do _anything_?

...

* * *

...

It's visible now—to me at least—that unavoidable bump that signifies the figurative end of my life as I've known it. I think I get it all now, what happened, and I have to admit, I'm seriously ticked, because the implications mean that I'm losing my mind, and that's never a good sign, but for the sake of my sanity, I'll pretend that it's possible.

So, then. Why me? Didn't You have some other poor princess to torment? One who preferably wasn't_ me_? I didn't ask for this—I don't want this. Go force it on someone else.

I told my theory to Turkey—he called this 'delusions of grandeur,' but I swear to you, there's nothing grand about this.

I notice the looks in the street now, the disdainful glances, the feelings of relief as people realize, 'wait a minute—I'm better than her. Look where she is.' Or maybe that's just my imagination.

I spend a lot of my time sitting—on park benches, on curbs, on the cracked red vinyl seats of the cheapest diner, watching my gil disappear before my eyes, counting the meals.

_Now would be some good time for that famous 'Divine Intervention.'_ But I have a feeling that it's "already happened." I don't think you get the same "favor" twice—but I certainly wouldn't ask for it. Not again.

_Why shouldn't I blame You for this? It's Your fault, isn't it?_

"Be careful what you wish for" suddenly has such a new meaning, it's sad.

...

* * *

...

I step heavily onto the sidewalk, frowning, squinting. I don't know what I'm going to do.

I've lost my second job (_like I could help it if I'm pregnant_) and that means that my one job that couldn't support a smoking habit now has to support me.

The optimist in me has died.

...

* * *

...

I can't stop laughing. Can't. Stop. They're glancing at me, sliding their meals away, and I see a man ready to approach me—probably to throw me out. (_Throw the crazy girl out._) I can't help it. I can't stop. The absence of gil in my hand makes my blood run cold, the irony harsh and bitter, and my laughing scared and manic. It's the last meal for a death row prisoner.

...

* * *

...

A sharp bang of metal on metal jerks me awake, and my back protests fiercely. I straighten slowly, my teeth gritted, and turn my squinted eyes to the bright light. "Nobody is allowed in the park after dark. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." His words are polite, but he sounds tired and biting and uncaring, as worn as me.

His baton is still in his gloved hand, and though through sickening habit I can imagine what damage could be inflicted with it, I can't help but plead—I have nowhere else to go. "Please, Sir. I-I can't go anywhere else. I-" hiccup, sniffle, "I just need to sleep. I'll be g-gone in the morning. P-Please, don't make me leave. I don't know wha-"

He grabs my arm so hard, I imagine I can feel the bruises form. "I don't care, Lady. Just make my job easier, and get the **** out of here." He almost forcibly drags me through the chain-link gate.

The gate shuts with a clang, and with a rasp of a lock, I know that though once I might have been able to scale it with ease, I'm stuck on the wrong side of what might as well be a mile-high gate. With a silent cry of frustration, I bang my fist against the metal entry (_knock, knock, knocking on Heaven's door_).

...

* * *

...

_How did it come to this?_ I wonder as I pull my wrap around me—as if tighter would warm me up. _Am I going to die here?_ I wonder, a bit melodramatically, as I feel the cold start creeping up my calves. _Why me?_ I wonder as I glance around for some sort of shelter, finding nothing.

Wearily, aching and shaking, I move to the curb and sit. My legs, clothed only in those stupid, stupid shorts—the only pair of pants I own—are frozen, but I think I might survive. (_So long, so long._)

The sun moves before I do, and I realize I've just spent my first night on the street. (_Welcome to your new life._)

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* * *

...

He's too drunk—Please, God, help me—too drunk to notice, too drunk to care that the swollen stomach _signifies _something—God, please, please, _please_, help _now—_I can't move—pinned up against the harsh bricks, and—Oh God, please help me—I can feel his hands moving on me, searching through my pockets, and touching, touching (_oh, God—help me_), everywhere they're not supposed to be. My tiny roll of gil has vanished already and my shirt is ripped and torn and pulled down below modest, a result of his greedy fingers and my struggling.

The bitter night is mocking my helplessness, and I can't stop screaming through the hand over my mouth—Oh God, not this, please. Through the roaring in my ears—the combination of terror and my muted screaming—I can hear him saying something, the the raspy, whispery breath in my ear that promises horror and nightmares. The (_oh-so_) familiar mixture of tears and terror and panic is running down my cheeks, and I can't st-stop screaming. Oh God, please, please, please.

I feel the fire of his angry touches—pain where there's not supposed to be—"P-Please," I whimper through the foul hand whose fingers grab and stretch greedily at the skin of my face, but his pain is nothing compared to the panic as I feel his other hand—Oh God, help me help me hel—ripping, fumbling with the waist of my shorts—those greedy fingers touching exploring searching violating—God! Anything but this –

My teeth finally connect with his fingers, and both hands are gone, only to be replaced with a tongue of fire down my cheek as his fist connects with it. I'm stunned speechless by the pain, and I can feel my brain rattle in my skull (_my poor brain_). I hear him speak clearly for the first time, his voice seething with anger. "I wouldn't do that, precious, wouldn't want to make me mad, would you?" In a rough motion, he pulls something from his waistband, and the knife presses to my neck. I'm still pinned back but I cry out as he jerks it from my neck to my chest, ripping a hole in already torn material and scoring a thin, light slit of red. The rush of cold air to sensitive, broken skin freezes my thoughts and his hand is tearing at my last shred of protection. There's almost no room to breathe between us—God, please—his hand is touching and violating and, oh, the _pain_ and God God God, no no! I struggle with my shoulders, trying to shake him and his livid, stinging touches off of me. His free hand slaps my face again, and the opposite cheek, bruised and bitter, meets the bricks behind me.

His hand jerks back down, and he pins my hip back against the wall as he probes against me, shifting his body. A hand roughly pulling my legs apart—God, God! No! It moves to my waistband and fumbles in the dark and blind for the button—my eyes nearly roll up into my head with fear, but all I can see those horrible eyes squint at me, and that slitted, cruel grin. "Don't scream," he hisses—my heart's pounding in raw, tender places as those fingers fumble the button of my shorts open, and –

But I can't help it; I open my lips to scream and have to bite it back as his mouth mashes against mine—and his body is too close—too close. And his hands—oh God—no no no. I try to inhale through his heavy, hot breath—his tongue, rough, cruel, rapes and chafes my mouth and he tastes like bitter alcohol and suffocating hate and fear. I heave a tight, hurting breath (_good luck_), and shake and scream against him—can't breathe I can't breathe. God help me.

And suddenly, I'm not there anymore—and I know it means something important in my brain snapped, but now I'm bent down inside, hugging myself, imagining that I could slide into the freezing snow and melt in the freezing heat. I'm melting in winter's freezing heat and hate, until I'm nothing more than pain and a torn black wrap and swollen stomach. It's almost a relief as the pounding, blinding fear invades my bruised mind, pushing out thought and feeling until I'm hollow. (_Should'a known better._) I don't feel the cold as the air bites my naked, exposed chest (_lie lie lie_) and his demanding isn't ripping my raw, bleeding mouth to shreds (_lie lie lie_) and his knee isn't pinning my bruised, aching thighs apart (_lie lie lie_)—oh God, oh God, oh God, please—please hel –

His _hand, _ripping, tearing, hurting, hurting, hurting, in places that shouldn't hurt, places _he shouldn't be_—I I'm screaming against his open mouth—can feel his laugh against me, as his dirty, defiling hands—let go of me!—God please please please—pushes himself up against me, knocks my head back the wall and his mouth drops to my chest, his mouth leaving a trail of fire and pain and wrong—this is all wrong—"Pl-please—" I gasp, shaking-shaking-shaking, my body building into a shuddering crescendo of fear and fire.

The scream welling in my throat breaks loose—I hear fear and disbelief in the echo and in his furious growl, and he brings the knife up to my neck. I know with tangible truth that _I am going to die_ if I don't do something. For a second, I feel myself relax, just waiting (_wishing_) for it—not even imagining the headlines, "Pregnant Good For Nothing Found Desecrated and Dead and Defiled in Unimportant, Deserted Corner of the Universe", but I'm suddenly caught by the conviction and the knowledge that it won't be just me dying if I let him.

He doesn't have a chance to cry out as I shoulder into him, knocking him back a necessary inch as my hand shoots up to his wrist. The knife is in my shaking, shaking hand before I realize, and his expression doesn't even change as it plunges into his gut. Blankly, he glances down at my hand, before his now accusing eyes lift up until his eyes are piercing me like the knife in him.

The blood is all over my hand, but I don't notice as an unfamiliar, feral scream tears from my throat and I pull the knife out and create a new wound in his chest. The pain registers on his face, flickering like a bad TV signal, before his eyes shut, and his weight falls to the concrete. I don't notice this, though as I fall to his chest, caught in a vicious, carnal rage, and scream and scream, and stab, and stab stab stab—those filthy hands, that rotting heart. Gory, fragmented puzzle pieces of the savaged mess of him and his bloody insides slowly pierce my mind and piece together.

The air is hissing ice and snow and tangling its claws in my hair and scratching down my chest and back before I finally yield, succumb, and rock back, covered in blood.

With a shudder, I drop the knife in the defiled, tainted snow (_just like you_), and pull my bloodstained, threadbare, ragged black wrap around my immodesty—numbly registering the pain and pain and pain. Winter's cold grasp is around my shoulders and chest, pushing me down, down, down. I surrender to its wants, and fall back to the bloody snow.

My heart won't beat, so the silence pounds, pounds, pounds for me, pumping blood and pain though my veins.

My ravaged body doesn't respond to me (_move, get up, run away run away run away)_ and I wonder if I'm dying. The thought brings a stab of fear to my shuddering, palpitating heart (_trying so hard to beat, give me a break_) and the thought fixes in my head—_I have to get away from here_—and it drags me, shaking hand over hand, until my conviction is completely gone. I collapse, no strength left to glance around and see where I've heaved myself to.

I stay there, unmoving, and let the silence pound pound pound my heart.

...

* * *

...

I recognize her when she walks up to me—but it's from a great, blindingly cold distance. I think I'm freezing to this curb.

She's wearing short-sleeves in winter, that pink dress a lovely monstrosity of the color-wheel, and a basket of impossibly alive flowers rests in the crook of her arm. (_She's impossible_) Her hair is braided and pushed back over her shoulder, falling down her back in a literally shining twist. It's beautiful—she's beautiful, but I don't notice—not really. I'm too busy not looking at anyone and clutching my swollen stomach. I feel the tired piercing my bones with every breath, and the aching in unfamiliar places, and the drained, emptiness in my core.

Her meandering path takes her to the gutter in front of me, and she leans down and looks me dead in my hollow, freezing eyes. (_I'm dead, darling. You're wasting your time_.) My heart shudders at the absence of judgment there, the lack of disdain. There's comfort, suddenly, in just looking in her eyes, just looking at another human being—not glancing away. Not lowering my eyes in shame. I'm just… seeing.

She extends her hand to me.

The soft, gracefully delicate lines of her gentle hands smooth and blur before my eyes.

Divine inter-freakin'-vention.

...

* * *

...

**urm.**

**yeah.**

**... well, _I_ like it.**

**(it gets better.)**

anyway, hope you enjoyed it (and might keep reading), etc.

-Latte

**EDIT:** JUST SO YOU KNOW, during that one scene, anytime the says "God" she is _not_ just using the name in vain, etc., she is actually entreating for mercy. Help. Etc. Because if I need some name to shoot off for no reason, I'd use "Leviathan" etc.

Too many commas, 'etc.,' etc., but I'm sure you understand, get my point, etc.


	2. Escapist

_Author's Note:_

So, I don't have great places for chapters to break, since this was written a bit after the prologue, which I meant to be a two part piece. And I am aware that it's very choppy, what with all the breaks. But I assure you, as I keep writing, I will definitely try to form real chapters. It's my first chaptered story-eh. Yeah. No excuses. xD

Either way.

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* * *

...

_ii._** Escapist**

**...**

Unsurprisingly, things have changed. On top of now having another paying job, and an actual place to stay, I now have an actual friend.

The Angel. Aeris.

She's working housekeeper now, and I'm working the Angel position. I'm not quite as angelic as her, but it works, and we're staying afloat. Nevermind that each night, I tend to hand out keys to like, twenty people who can't afford to pay for it. (Not that we even get… twenty customers in a night. But shhh.)

This place isn't as bad as I first made it out to be. I've learned that the spiders aren't a common occurrence, and the water isn't so foul once you get used to it. However, this might be a bad thing, me getting used to foul water. But what can I do, really? I owe Aeris everything.

I don't miss the money. I don't miss the extravagance. I don't miss steaming hot plates of sumptuous dumplings, or the sushi, or – or – or…

Sigh.

Okay, let's not start this off with a lie, or a delusion, or retardation. I do miss the money—oh, how I miss that money. I had never worked before a day in my life, although I used to think I had, so I had never appreciated it. And the food. I can't imagine not being hungry now.

Deciding not to continue this train of thought, I 'hmm' to myself, and put my nose into the vase of flowers I'm arranging and—"innnnhale!" My brain shouts. Nostrils obey my command, and as that beautiful smell goes straight to my head, I'm half-tempted to just leave to leave my nose there while I straighten to greet my new customer—but I think that goes against the unsaid, "Don't scare the costumers" policy. Detaching nose, would, most likely, scare said customer.

...

* * *

...

It's getting hard to find baggier clothes that don't just fall off me. Most likely, I'm just going to have to buy a housecoat made for a giant, and just wear that. I'm not sure what he'd do if he knew I was pregnant, but I don't want to find out. I can't afford to lose this job too. Even if I'm not showing that much, I don't want to take that chance.

I'm at my second job, and I'm really sweating bullets. It's really. Just. Not. Fun.

But, still, diligently, scrub, scrub, scrub.

In the beginning, when I first started this job and I had no clue how to wash dishes at all—and the sight of the never-ending pile that just grew, and grew and took over my meager attempts at washing, until I knew I'd be there all night—I used to cry just at the sight of a plate.

I'm a bit better now, but I'm not as great as I could be.

Luckily, now, I have a partner.

She's a bit older than me, but she has _so much spirit_ (_remember that?_) and she's so _alive_ (_so were you_) and I can't help but marvel a bit every time I look at her. She's also drop-dead gorgeous, of course, and it's no surprise Mr. Sir Boss-Cook can't help but glance over at her every other second. Not that I can blame him, 'cause if I did go for chicks, I'd probably go for her. She is definitely smoking hot, but also really pretty with her soft, shining dark hair and perfectly shaped pink lips. Eyes that are as dark as her hair and eyelashes that flutter like butterfly wings when she blinks. She's tall and not that curvy, but God has surely blessed her with a well-endowed chest. I'm thinking that Sir Boss-Cook really should just try a continuous stare—after all, he's gonna break his neck doing the constant glancing.

Her name's Tifa (_I think_) and she's really only here, she says, until she can open the bar that she wants to. She says she doesn't know what she's going to call it, but that it's going to be marvelous. I believe her.

She sings a lot too—not the songs my mother used to sing to me, with me, but sometimes bawdy Northern tavern-songs, smooth, jazzy nighttime Costa Del Sol spices, love songs, hate songs, sometimes a Rocket Town ditty, Wutaian lullabies, and other times songs I heard on the radio today. It's like she knows every single song in the world.

Sometimes she has me joining in too, for the ones I know, my squeaky, pitchy nail-scratch of a voice completely insulting her rich, almost-sultry Nibelheim-lilting voice. She sings with abandon, it makes my heart ache. (_Used to be like that but now you're not your unfamiliar and broken and-and)_

I think an imaginary deep breath.

_Not my fault. _The mantra is overused, and tastes dry and bitter on the tongue of my unspoken thoughts, but now I've learned not to drop the plates when I want to cry.

...

* * *

...

I'm scared of losing me again.

What am I doing here? Why is my mind insistent on not telling me everything? Why can't it just explain what it's doing, rather than send me into a maze of worn-out haunts and bone-weary hours. It's bitter and vivid, the pain of past memoires—that past memory—_his mouth on yours, harsh and throbbing and–and_—

I shudder, squeezing my eyes shut, and force myself to think of basket on my arm, drilling the idea in my head: _selling flowers_; that's what I'm doing—selling flowers. Because Aeris has developed a bit of a sniffle, and I'm too kind for my own good. (Tch.)

The Spring's air still has a nip to it, and my oversized black wrap is not around my shoulders. Aeris had taken one glance at it, pronounced it dirty, (_and torn and bloodstained and defil-_) and left me with a tiny, nippy-spring-air-blow-through sort of thing, and told me to wear that, so I supremely blame her for my current, cold situation.

I'm still too scared—I don't want to approach anyone, but I figure I must eventually. The broad daylight is more welcoming than the tainted twilight, and it promises to protect me if-_if-_

"F-flower?" I stutter, holding a flower to a passing woman. She glances at it, hesitates for a second, and stops when she sees my face. "Alright. How much?"

"T-ten g-gil." My stuttering has only developed after Aeris rescued me, (_after he—_) but she's never inquired as to the source and I won't share, but she's the only one I can talk to without too much stammering. I hate it. It's like there's something clutching my throat every time I try to talk.

She gives me the money, and I hand her the flower. After nicking off the rest of the stem, she tucks into her hair, where it contrasts nicely. "Have-ve a n-nice d-day." I call after her retreating form. Not that I expected a response.

I had actually allowed myself a bit of hope after selling another to a gentle, grandmotherly woman whose mischievous, grandmotherly smile promises comfort and hot chocolate and grandmotherly hugs and other things of a grandmotherly nature—_take me home with you? Please?_—but it was immediately crushed in the following hours.

Remembering the way Aeris could convince anyone to part with a measly ten gil (_which was once a fortune for me_) for one of her beautiful flowers, I feel a nudge of panic as I realize just how much I'm letting her down. I haven't sold a single flower for more than two hours, and it's getting darker. _Oh—scared of the dark, are you?_ Whispers a mean voice in the back of my head. I bite my lip, and resolve to sell a flower to the next person I see.

I nearly grab the arm of my victim (_poor, sad-looking gentleman_) and turn him around. "I'm s-sorry, Sir," my stuttering is almost gone in the face of desperate need, which is good to know. "But I was wondering if you wanted a f-" I trail off, staring at his face. Familiar? How? "A-a flower…?" The bench, I remember suddenly. Hours, it felt like, of sitting and watching the world turn without me. Numerous times catching his eyes, and wondering, wondering, wondering. I see him glance at me, and his eyebrows contract for a second. I release him like I've been burned. He's recognized the old girl, the one I used to be, and I'm not her anymore. This thought, for an unknown reason, forces me to release him, lest I face it deeper than simple realization.

He sounds confused, uncomfortable as he mumbles, "I don-" His voice is a low, raspy bass (_a horrible, raspy whisper in your ear, promising nightmares at his hands_ (as his hands)_—please, Oh God, no, please-_)– I can't help the quiet gasp of horror that slips from my throat as I step backwards, stumble…

I'm weightless as I fall back, and for one, sickeningly enjoyable second, I feel free, before my head cracks against the pavement.

...

* * *

...

. . .

pain—why does it hurt so much? what happened?

**pounding** in my head—can't remember—Aeris, where's—

Screaming—pain—his mouth tearing yours—no, _not this again_, please, _anything but this_—God, please, I don't want to remember

his _blood_ on _your_ hands,

and tomorrow, i might just feel (_be_) the same

dripping

**dripping**

dripping

from the knife

bloody snow, **defiled**, savage

_no no no no no no_

" and you'll know i'm alive from the screaming

the rush, rush, rush "

a vile whisper in your ear

"I'm gonna _break_ you…"

**his hands**

**no**—NO!

...

* * *

...

My body arches, and I'm screaming when I wake up, and already, I see the nurses rushing towards me, arms outstretched to lessen my thrashing. "No!" I hear my voice pound inside my aching head, the echoes reverberating in the corners of my throbbing brain. "No! Please! Please!" I'm sobbing again (it's just another nightmare) and pounding my fists against his chest (Aeris will be in to wake you up in a second) and in my fist is suddenly a knife (she'll be here in just a second) and it's stabbing (wasn't me, wasn't me) stabbing, stabbing (just one more second) – "Aeris!"

The needle is in my arm before I can feel it, and my mind shuts and falls blissfully silent.

...

* * *

...

I see _him_ when I wake up. (Not _him._ He only visits in nightmares.) He looks drawn and weary, and I wonder if he's been here all day. (_How long is all day?_) I feel my eyebrows furrow as I try to remember what happened. When I can't, I question the obvious: "What h-happened?"

"You fell." Simple answer, but it sends shudders down my spine—that voice. That voice.

_No._ I try to control my mind. _It's not him. Not. Him. He's gone—it's not him. _Try to think. A vague, blurry recollection. Screaming, fighting. The needle in my arm. Was that real, or my imagination? If it was real, was he there…? I decide that he couldn't be, or he wouldn't still be here.

I open my mouth to speak, "I-I-" I am forced to close my mouth as I calm myself down. I try again, "I-I'm s-sorry," St-st-stutter.

I hate me.

Frown, and try again, for a third time, speaking slowly and softly. "I'm… sorry. H-how-" frown, but I continue, "long h-have you been h-here?" Still, why am I asking questions? Is it masochism? It's masochism.

To my intense relief, he refrains from speaking and holds up five long fingers. Relief turns to disbelief as I take each finger to mean an hour. Crap. "_Oh_. I'm s-so sorry! You didn't h-have to stay."

He just shakes his head, but looks past me as I hear the door open. I shift on the impersonal hospital bed to face my visitor: a nurse. More specifically, a murse, but who's asking?

"Hello, Yuffie. I'm Denzel Markham. (_Why does it matter? Do I look like I care?_) How are you feeling?"

Bashed in? Terrified? Freakin'frackin' terrific?

I swallow the bitter thoughts like medicine, but there's no sugar to help them go down, and they lodge somewhere in the back of my throat. "Fine." I choke.

"Does your head hurt?"

I nod with vigorous agreement. Stupid me.

"Yeah, well-" pound, pound, "that's to be expected," pound, pound, pound, "after all, you do have-" pound, "a bit of a-" pound, pound, "concussion." Pound, pound, pound. "But you'll be pleased-" pound, pound, "to know that the baby wasn't harmed." Pound, pound, pound. (_Relief this time._)

I let out a little groan of pain (_pure agony_). "Thank you." It comes out as a whisper.

"No problem." He's an idiot. A cute sort of brown-spiky-haired sort, but an idiot nonetheless. He leaves.

I turn my attention to the—did I say Sir. Brown-Spiky-Haired is cute? Then _he_ must be exquisite—man in the corner. "What's your n-name?" I ask, feeling the quickly-becoming-familiar flood of masochistic thoughts my voicing the question. A question that would need an answer. An answer that would need a voice. His voice. (_His voice—whispering—)_

"Vincent." He whispers it, but I don't react so badly—maybe because I am expecting it. I give a nod, and then chomp my lip as my head pounds in response to the movement.

_Idiot._

Nevertheless, I try a smile. "I'm Y-Yuffie. Nice to f-finally meet you."

I blush, suddenly, at the thought of how weird this might sound. "I mean, I s-saw you a lot in the, uh… in the p-park in th-the m-mornings. I, uh, I used to-to watch p-people go by." And my stuttering returns in full force. Lovely.

"I remember you."

"M-most people don't."

Jeez. Why say that? Can I sound more self-pitying? More pathetic? Not likely. (_Shoot me._) I quickly continue, giving him an apologetic glance. "I'm s-sorry for ruining your d-day."

"Not at all. I'm sorry for scaring you." He speaks with such grace that it takes me a couple seconds to hear what he says, but I react in my usual way. "What? S-scared? Me? N-naw. I-uh, I was just, um… surprised."

"By what?" His gaze is a bit penetrating. A bit too penetrating. I open my mouth, and shut it, and open it again, unsure. Who is this guy? _Is he for real? _Who, on sweet, blessed Gaia, acts like that? Like some character in a movie, or a book—all shrewd glances and perceptive responses?

He fills in the silence for me. "I'm sorry. That was too forward of me."

"N-no, uh, problem." Maybe he's just socially retarded. (Maybe _I'm_ socially retarded—why do I feel like I'm quickly losing all grasps of human communication?) He continues for my loss of the language, "Let me try this again, the right way. I'm sorry that your day was ruining by this unexpected hospital visit. I'm sure you had other plans, and I'd love to make it up to you. Maybe I could take you out to lunch sometime?"

"I-uh," I mumble, dumbly—stupidly, like the vacant-brained moron that I am—

He smiles. Sweet Leviathan, he's beautiful. "Okay, then. Where should I pick you up?" (_I don't think I said 'yes.' **** concussion._)

I answer out of memorization before quite hearing his words, "The Church Inn on—"

"I know where it is." He cuts over me. "I'll come by sometime and see if you're up to it."

"I-I—thank you." Why did it come out such a question? I reinforce it with a smile and repeat for firmer intonation: "Thank you." _Stranger-danger_, my mind reprimands, _stranger-dan –_ but he can't be a danger. He's too—something. Nice. Trustable. (_Convincing._)

"You're welcome, Yuffie." He stands. I felt something inside of me drop a bit. _He's leaving?_ As if he's reading my mind, he apologizes. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm very late for a business meeting. I hope to see you soon."

"G-good-bye, Vincent."

That smile again. "Goodbye, Yuffie."

And he leaves.

My chest releases, and I can take my first breath in months.

...

* * *

...

Our surprise, mine and Aeris's, upon leaving the hospital was that the bills were already paid by a certain generous, unknown, unnamed benefactor. Pffbbbt. Like I didn't know who. (_Wow._)

For my head nearly being bashed in by a cobblestone, Aeris is incredibly interested in this Mr. Vincent, rather than my harrowing near-death experience. "So, tell me what he looked like." She orders for the third time.

Cue groan. "I told you. He looked like an angel dropped down from heaven. Black hair to like, his chin, maybe? a 'bob,' I guess—perfect skin, perfect eyebrows, long face, slightly pointed chin, pale skin, uh-uh-uh... pale lips, thick, black eyelashes. Red eyes? Crimson? Maroon? Something. Crisp suit. Pretty, altogether." I heave a gusty sigh. "He's certainly a fine specimen."

She squeals, and I can't help but smile. (_For the third time._)

It's a longish walk to Church Inn, but I appreciate the sun and skies for the first time in five days. Aeris was over every day, (she even hired a temp to take her place and a housekeeper to clean the Inn) visiting me in my invalidity, but it's a relief to be away from the white and into color and walking on my own two legs.

Aeris, who has taken on the annoying habit of calling him "your prince charming," is maintaining that he'll come by to pick me up within the week.

I maintain that I have better things to do than wait for him.

Honestly. I could care less.

...

* * *

...

Two weeks.

It's been two weeks.

**** people. Untrustworthy. Mean. Nasty things.

Even if he _was_ a fine specimen.

...

* * *

...

Week three.

The door opens.

This in and of itself isn't quite an unusual occurrence, however, the person behind the door is.

It's _him._ And no, not _him-_him_._ It's the Turkey.

I can't stifle the shock that probably flits across my face. Or the unsure feeling of relief mixed with hostility. I immediately remember our last conversation—the shouting, the blame, the anger. Should I hate him? Should he hate me?

There's this tight, sad look in his eyes, but something akin to wistfulness in his expression. That's the closest I can get to the right word, and I feel my heart tighten and shudder with some choked emotion, and to my horror, I can feel the tears well in my eyes. I had tried not to think about Reno, and the pain associated with those bittersweet memories, but seeing him, now with that serious, almost pained expression is making my heart lurch in a horrible way.

"Turkey." My voice is much quieter than I remember it last. He approaches the front desk, where I've been chained for the past three hours, a weak smile on his lips. Queasy, I'd almost say. "Hey." Did his voice crack? I can see that he's uncomfortable by the way he scratches the back of his head. How many times have I seen that action? Too many to count. "Hey." He repeats, glancing around. Bashful, uncomfortable, unsure. The silence continues for two measures, (_one, two, three four_) and I can feel the discomfort tangibly.

"Oh, geez. Just say something already." My outburst surprises even me, and I'm scared he'll be angry—but only for a second, because he cracks into a wide grin. "Well, fine." Huffy, but playful. This is more like it, even if his smile is a bit wary, still unsure. "I think I should get an award for actually finding you. Those were some serious Turk skills I used."

I slip easily in to my old character—and marvel at how easy it is. Almost as if _it_ never happen—almost like I'm whole again, safe and comfortable in our old, easy routine. "Oh, you think? Hmm…" I put a thoughtful finger to my lips, glancing up to the ceiling where I can hear Aeris banging around. "Nope," I trill, putting said thoughtful finger in his face. "I don't think so. You need a really heroic act to get an award."

"What?" Turkey outrage. He puffs out his chest and pokes it to draw my attention to his wonderful crest of red and orange and blue feathers, and clucks self-importantly. "I chased you down, and I actually purposefully found your ugly mug! If that ain't heroism, nothing is."

I mock-gasp. "Excuse me? How dare you!" I poke my finger into his chest. "_My_ ugly mug? Better go look at your quacker first!"

"Quacker…?"

"Polly want a quacker?"

Reno blinks. Cue beam. Though it feels rusty and groggy from lack of use, from lack of smiles, my mouth obliges.

Silence as Reno decides how best to approach this conundrum. "Uh. Yuffie?"

"Yes, Polly?

He pauses for a second to give me a glare. I accept this with a loverly grin. With a noise of humored disgust, he shakes his head. "I have no clue what you're talking about. But it's nice to see you back to-" his voice catches on "back to normal." When he meets my eyes again, there's that gleam of pain.

The mood suddenly plummets. **** you, Turkey. "Right." I mumble, for lack of eloquence and ideas.

He breaks into a watery smile. "So. How have you been?"

(_Raspy whisper in your ear—nightmares—night terrors—like someone is gripping your throat_) "F-fine." I st-st-stutter, and hate myself for it. It's a lie, and we both know it, and I can see it hurt him a little bit. I can't stand the thought, and my mind hurries to cover it up. "H-how about you? H-how's your job g-going?"

I can almost see him wince at the sound of my stuttering, unsure voice—almost, but he's stronger than that, and I'm grateful for it. He clears his throat. "It's… well, it's a job. It's _my_ job, actually. **** it." I crack an unwilling smile, but he continues. "So. You. Here? Really? I thought you were at the Golden Saucer Diner down on Market?"

I blush furiously—that's all that he thinks of me. A dishwasher. (_Scrub, scrub._) "Yeah. I still am, b-but I work here for a p-permanent room. Aeris is, after all, an-an Angel."

"Really?" He asks, more for something to say than disbelief or interest. I struggle not to meet his nearly sky-blue eyes and instead focus on my knuckles. "So." It comes out as a mumble, and I find myself wishing I had something a bit more intelligent to say. Something a bit more helpful to say. Something a bit better than, "so."

Which I repeat, glancing up at him for a brief second, before examining my knuckles again.

"Look. Yuffie. You don't, uh…" He pauses for a second and scratches the back of his head. "You don't… I dunno. No hard feelings, right?"

"Um." The inside of my lip is tired from being nibbled, but I'm not a big nail-biter, so I have nothing else to chew. Still, I need some form of release from the confusion I'm feeling. No hard feelings? I have no clue. Does he know what I've been through, all because of the arguments we had—how he threw me out—the nights I spent on cold park benches, dreaming and praying and wishing for the warm, cozy corner I used to have in his loft? Can I just ignore the fact that had he not forced me to leave—_had your _pride_ not forced you to __leave,_ hisses a voice in the back of my mind—none of this would've happened. Can I just ignore the fact that I wouldn't have had to scrounge for each meal? Can I just ignore the fact that because of him… b-because of him— (_A cold, harsh, raspy whisper—his voice in your ear—"I'm gonna break y-" No!_)

My mind blurs, and I refuse to let myself go there again. I don't know. I honestly don't know.

Still. I summon up as much conviction that is in me at the moment, and nod, meeting his eye for the first time. Because I need him more than he needs me. "Yeah. No hard feelings."

I say it a bit slower than I need to, if only to keep the stutter from my tongue.

...

* * *

...

He comes around a bit more, now, if only because he knows I won't hurt him, or anything. Not that I ever would (_could_)—I can't imagine me actually managing to hurt Reno, his skin is thicker than an elephant's—but apparently he needed the assurance. Maybe he was feeling guilty.

I'm not sure, still, if I don't harbor a bit of a grudge against him. But I'm good at lying and ignoring blatant facts, so I'm sure I'll manage just fine.

...

* * *

...

Break is the loveliest thing ever, I decide, holding my aching back as I lean back against the chair. The dishes are, for the moment, dealt with, and for that blazing honor, Tifa and I have received a break. Whoop.

You might wonder why it takes so long to get just _dishes_ done, and let me tell you. Between the water going on and off the blitz, the decrepit sponges and the massive orders of plate-filling dishes, I'd like to see you get on top of it. Hence me staying late, most of the time.

I yaaawn, and stretch. It feels _wonderful_. My hair, which Aeris had actually styled today—to show me what, I quote, "it could look like if you only _cared_"—is lying limp across my forehead and the back of my neck, and I'm afraid that the next time I flick it out of my eyes, my neck might snap. (_This is what it could look like if you cared._) Tifa is chatting up Mr. _Cloud_ Sir-Boss—I never did catch his name before—and he's looking like he thinks he's the luckiest guy in the world. He is. Any guy would kill for Tifa's attention. Nevermind the fact that he probably has some orders he has to cook. But we're at a lull after the lunch hour, and we hardly have any customers at the moment, if I'm correct in my estimations.

I haven't been addressed in the conversation, and I plan on keeping it that way. I don't talk to total strangers. Not that "Cloud" is a… _total_ stranger, but he is a slave-master (_slave example: me_) and I don't talk to their sort.

Yeah. I can really only talk to people I know well… well. Good? Whatever.

I can't strike up a conversation with random strangers.

I think I used to, though. (_Used._)

...

* * *

...

"Where is he?"

"I'm sure he's just waiting. He'll be here. Eventually."

"Yeah. But. But. I was going to say 'no.' He never gave me the chance to say 'no.' So… so I need to find him to tell him that, 'no. I won't go to lunch with you.' Or-or… _whatever_."

Silence.

"Not that I really care."

Silence.

"Of course. I mean—I-I, just, so obviously, couldn't care less."

Silence.

"Oh! Where is he?"

...

* * *

...

We're sitting together on the couch, with the ravaged popcorn bowl between us. We've just finished some chick-flick that I can't even remember the name of, and Aeris is searching for something else to watch before we head to our respective rooms.

She eventually settles on the news, and I watch with anemic interest, not quite caring that we'll be having a rainy week. They're always wrong anyway.

It's only mild interest, until I see.

It takes me a second to realize he's _on TV._ On the television. Sitting. Right. In front. Of me.

What the heck?

"Whoa-whoa! Don't turn!" I cry to Aeris, nearly smacking the remote from her hands before snatching it. "There he is, there he is! Volume. Vol-vol-volume—volume!" I'm screeching and fumbling with the control, mostly from manic energy and from the fact that my hands are shaking, but I manage to turn the volume up.

"…released a statement saying that negotiations between the companies are stable, and they both hope for a healthy partnership. As you know, Rufus ShinRa and Vincent Valentine, both prominent businessmen, have been on rocky ground for quite a time now, but they hope to put that behind them with this new partnership. Critics of the alliance say that it's just a ploy for ShinRa to control Valentine's relatively new, but successful self-built company, but Valentine seems to be confident. Rufus has assured critics that there is absolutely no malicious intent behind his actions, but that has done little to allay the accusations."

The charmingly black-haired, falsely tan-skinned anchorman casts a fake, sparkling white grin at the reporter. "And what do you think, Natalie?"

"I think time will tell. Reporting from Junon, I'm Natalie Gerard with Channel 10, News on Edge. Back to you, Ron."

"Thanks, Nat." Ron throws a grin to his coiffed, unsmiling anchorwoman. Judging from his insatiable need to be on camera, he obviously thinks this is the "Ron Show" rather than "News on Edge." He decides to inject his opinion into the conversation, even though it obviously isn't important, or necessary, "I think that if Valentine thinks Rufus is after a peaceful partnership, he's out of his mind." Cue tight, forced laugh from colleague. He glances down at the papers on the counter in front of him, shifts them around unnecessarily, as he doesn't really move anything, and casts a dead-center, dramatic, soul-piercing, world-is-coming-to-an-end gaze into the teleprompter. "Topping our people scene this evening…"

Mute, not caring that Rufus ShinRa was seen with a famous actress.

I blink. Gape. Blink. Gape.

"Wha-tha-heck."

"Gosh. Vincent. Vincent _Valentine_. Duh." Aeris has bonked herself on the head. "I've seen him before! On TV. He's was on Veere's list of the 100 Richest People! Number... seventy...something. What the _heck_?"

"Vincent… Valentine?" I ask stupidly. I've never even heard of him.

"Yeah. Why didn't you tell me his last name?"

"He… he never told me. No wonder. Jeez!"

"I… wow. Wow, Yuffie. You were invited to lunch by a _multi-millionaire_–"

"No wonder. Jeez, Aeris. Of course. Of _course._ Why would he bother with a no-good, poor, worthles–"

"Yuffie. You are _not_ worthless."

"Pffbt! Try telling him tha–"

"No matter what he thinks, be he an arrogant jerk, you are not worthless."

"I can't believe it…" I mumble. That was my entire month, gone to ****. I… I had _liked_ him, even. ******. Cue groan. "I'm going to bed. Wake me up in never."

With that, I leave and begin to pull myself up the stairs, feeling completely worthless, despite what Aeris has said.

...

* * *

...

**Ah well.**

Bad break for a chapter, but I've already explained it. xD

Next chapter is way longer. I'll wait a bit to post that, and hopefully I'll have finished the third chapter by then.

Verb tenses suck when you're writing as Yuffie. 'Lemme know if I messed something up?

This is probably where people would have the whole, "review?" part, but, heck. Do whatever you want.

I mean.

_I'm_ certainly not going to guilt trip anyone to do anything.

...

I mean. _I_ don't write for feedback alone.

...

I mean. Come on.

Honestly.

...

I mean, _I'm_ not-

Yeahbye. :D

**EDIT:** I obviously am not pregnant, and I don't know that much about the ACTUAL pregnancy, so any tips/help anyone could give about it would certainly help, and if I slip up, which I am bound to do, don't be too harsh? D:  
Yay. xD

**EDIT 2.0: **_5.19.11 _Edited slightly for better flow, fixed grammatical issues and made it sound prettier. :D

**EDIT 2.5:** _10.17.11 _Re-edited for slightly better flow, grammar and prettiness.


	3. Suing For Slander

Anditstartsgettingbetter? :D

We'll see.

...

* * *

...

_iii._** Suing For Slander**

**...**

"I don't know." I can't help the fact that my face has slid into an unflattering lopsided frown—really. It's just the natural response to, "Hey! Let's ditch work today and go shopping!" How can we ditch work? We're the only people who work here! "That seems… impossible. And not a good idea." Aeris frowns at my response—pouts, more like—and puts her elbows on the counter. "Come onnn, Yuff. It'll be fun!"

I feel my resolve weaken and quiver like the expression on my face. The left corner of the frown slowly creeps up, until it's an awkward, almost-crooked smile. "Oh… fine. Fine. Fine." I throw in an obscenity for seasoning. "****."

Aeris beams and tosses me my newly-cleaned black wrap as a reward for my good behavior.

"Thanks for…" I sniff it. Boy, does it smell clean. "…fumigating it."

"Well. It did smell _that_ bad."

"I hate you."

"Love you too."

...

* * *

...

I am having fun, darn it. I don't want to admit it, really, but it's so comfortable to just feel normal for a bit. It's so _nice_ to just sit there and giggle over clothes and purses and boys, just like _normal_ people.

I've had to pry a couple crazy expensive items of Aeris's little paws, but all in all, she's a pretty hawk-eyed shopper. She has the keen senses of wolf—she can smell a bargain from a hundred meters away. Not that I can measure meters, being brought up on Wutaian measurements my entire life, but who's counting? Besides those who are trying to convert between the two.

We exit Choosey's, which, in my opinion, is a retarded name for a store, and take a recline on the fancy metal bench on the sidewalk. It's a warmer day—perfect for outdoor shopping, and we're in the richer part of Edge, which is a pleasantly fake, cutesy tourist attraction. I actually like it, because it's a lovely vacation from reality.

The first thing Aeris had bought was a sort of summer dress and I had changed immediately into it. So, for this very spacey moment, I feel like I belong with the carefree Coach-toting young mothers with handsome, coiffed hubbies and their children and nannies. I feel at home with the well-to-do, middle-aged ladies with their stately husbands. Almost. But I'm pretty good at playing pretend.

I'm still wearing my black wrap—it is still _spring_, after all. For some reason though, it almost looks stylish with the perky yellow of my new dress. I feel clean, happy. I finally feel relaxed for the first time in a week, and _boy_, is it comfortable. Actually, I don't ever want to leave here.

Aeris breaks this happy thought with her words, "Come on! Let's _gooo._ I don't want to waste our day just _sitting_ around!" And she grabs my arm and in a confused moment, I'm already half-way down the street, put-putted along by the reliable Aeris Tugboat.

She gives my arm another tug, and I just as I begin walking under my own volition, she grabs my elbow and grinds me to a halt. "Let's eat here?"

I glance up at the "Capital Grille" and groan. "Aeris?" The shiny, modern blackness of it all, the gold writing tells me all I need to know.

"Yes?"

"This place might as well have gargoyles! A-a piece of… _chicken_ is going to cost _two hundred gil_!"

"We'll… share something."

I decide that this isn't such a bad idea, actually, and let her pull me in.

...

* * *

...

"Oh gosh." I can't help it—after four minutes of us thinking the same thing, I _have_ to say it. "He is so-_so_ gorgeous."

Aeris covers her giggles with her fist. "I _know_." Stifled giggle. I glance to where our waiter disappeared, taking a sip of my water, and nearly spit it out when the door to the kitchen swings open and I catch a glimpse of him. "Agh. He's gay."

"_What_? That's not fair, Yuffie. You can't just call guys gay 'cause you want them for yourself—you tried that at Fennagin, _and_ Choosey's." I blush, because she's true on one of three counts.

"No. A.) The dude at Fennagin was twenty-nine-something, and he had a most-likely sixteen-year-old dude on his arm. Glued to. Grabbing. Clutching his arm. If he wasn't gay—he was—then he's just completely messed up. Did you notice that they were in a _maternity_ shop? Can you say, 'odd?' Queer? B.) And then that other guy—I just couldn't help it. He was too gorgeous. And obviously destined to be mine, so there was no point in you feeling upset by my good luck, and C.) This guy is definitely, positively—" I catch Aeris's widened eyes, and raised eyebrows, and the way her gaze is over my shoulder, and my brain switches tack at a speed that surprises even me, "A really fast waiter, I mean—" I glance over my shoulder, and fake surprise. "Oh! Wow! That was quick."

Aeris manages to turn her giggle into an extremely unconvincing cough, but the waiter apparently hasn't heard my previous words and just smiles in a distracted way. After dropping off our salad, he does the little waiter speech about, "Anything else, etc., etc., etc.?" and makes sure we're not going to sue him for leaving at this particular moment, or whatever, and then rushes off to be with his steamy Costa Del Sol-ian busboy.

"Blargh. You're right."

Poor Aeris. She looks so sad, as the doors to the kitchen swing shut again. "Awh. Don't worry, sweetie. I'm sure there's a steamy busboy for you back there too."

She gasps, looking shocked and devilishly pleased by my words, and smacks my arm. "Yuf-fie!"

I mock her surprise, putting a hand to my mouth. "Aer-is!"

"Shut up," with just enough sugar that the medicine goes down. Before I can protest, she grins wolfishly. "Let's eat."

...

* * *

...

That salad was about two bites, but I'm full enough, and Aeris is happy, so I guess that's all I need. It was crazy expensive, though, 173 gil, plus tip, and my pocket is still smarting. Regardless, I'm ready for more shopping—or, at least, I was.

Until.

...

* * *

...

I had just turned to Aeris, asking her when she thought we would be heading back, wondering if I had time to go back to Fennagin (the maternity shop) when I see him.

He's standing on the corner, just… looking at me. His filthy coat is crusted with dried, brown blood, and there's a knife sticking out of his chest. I can see some gruesome pink of some internal organ that _shouldn't be there he's not there he's not there_. That grimy, yellow smile splits his face when he catches my gaze, and all I can do is stand there and whisper in paralyzed panic, _he's not real, he's not real, he's not real(ly there)_. I can literally feel my struggling heart thump to a halt as, he lifts a bloody, crusty fingernail, raises it slowly, slowly, slowly, to point at me.

And that's when the screaming starts.

...

* * *

...

I wake up with the sick taste in my mouth that makes me wonder if I've actually vomited in my unconsciousness, and the tickling feeling in my mind that tells me that I should feel guilty. For… _something._ I can't quite put my finger on it now, but I have a feeling it has something to do with Aeris.

The next thing I realize is that I can't move my arms, and I can feel (_I can imagine_) his hands pinning my arms to my sides, I can feel that knife to my thr-thr-thr—

"_Aeris!_" I can hear the echo, and I know, I know, I know, I know there's no one there, (_no one's coming_) but that doesn't stop screaming for her.

...

* * *

...

"Yuffie?"

Through the tangible blur of my unconsciousness, I hear her voice, and it pulls me farther from the nightmares I'm tangled in. When I open my eyes, I can feel the salty crust of dried tears on my eyelashes, gluing them together into a grimy, cakey mess. I feel sick, and disgusting, and horrible, and I wish I wasn't awake, but when I think of the alternative, it sends me into wakefulness quicker than anything else could.

Through the squinting white, I see Aeris's worried expression. I close my eyes again for a pained, prolonged second, before opening them fully to examine her. She looks _so_ worried, it almost hurts as much as my head. I question the obvious lack of knowledge that I have, "What time is it?" My first clue comes when Aeris almost winces, but answers. "I don't know. It's been… maybe a couple of hours?" My second is when she gives a guilty glance over her shoulder. It's her typical guilty-giveaway. She can't ever sit still, and she gets paranoid, or something, and always glances over her shoulder. She's a horrible liar—horrible at hiding anything whatsoever. So I lift my head up to see what she's looking at, and that's when I realize that, again, I can't move. The sick remembrance of it (_up against the harsh brick—helpless, unable to stop hi-_) forces my eyes wide, tight, straining, terrified wide, and I can almost feel my pupils contract with the fear. Aeris seems to notice this, because she puts a hand on my arm, and heads me off, "Yuffie—it's okay, it—"

Hiss, "_Why can't I move?_" I can feel my neck tendons pop, almost, as I completely tense, trying to find a weak point in the something binding my elbows to the bed.

"It's for your own protection."

"My _own protection_?" I do nearly screech.

"Yuffie… you attacked someone."

This grinds my brain to a halt, restrains my struggling better than the straps.

I can see, from a great distance of disbelief and denial, Aeris's hesitance to continue, that she's unsure of what to do, that she doesn't understand my reaction, my silence, my blankness. But she does continue for lack of a better avenue of action. "He was across the street, hailing a cab for his family, and you started screaming, and… and sort of dashed across the street and started beating him up."

I manage a cracked whisper, "In front of his f-family?" I'm trying not to burst into tears right now, but it's an extreme test of my self-control.

"Y-yeah."

"Will he be okay?"

Aeris's hesitation makes my heart stop, and her answer does little to allay my fears. "I don't know." _Sweet_ _Leviathan, why this? This is wrong, this is all wrong._

"Where is he?"

She actually looks scared for a second—Oh, Leviathan—she looks scared of me. "W-why?"

"I-" I heave a breath and grab some of the sheets in my fist, tightly. It's therapeutic. "I need to know he-he's gonna be o-okay." I'm choking back sobs now, and Aeris's response is surprisingly dry and callous for an Angel, but I assume I deserve it. "I don't think they're going to let you do that."

H-h-heave a breath, as my fingers worry and tear the hospital-white sheets and my lungs turn black and blue from the beating of lacking these simple breaths. "I need to g-go ap-apolog-giiizze—" the last word is drawn out in a sob. "I-I'm s-" I suck in a breath, "so sor-sorry."

"You-" Aeris breaks off, but regains confidence and continues, "Yuffie. You have to tell me what's going on. I've been respectful of your privacy, but this is dangerous for you—you _have_ to explain."

I cough a couple sobs and shake my head, balling up the handful of sheet in my fist, focusing on its shape and feeling, rather than the situation. I can't tell her. I can't. The ridiculous, out-of-the-blue thought hits me, _Baby can't grow up in jail, and I killed a man. I'm sorry, Sweetie, but momma killed a man._

Without thinking, I put a hand to my swollen belly, and try, try, try to fix this, but I can see it in Aeris's expression: everything's changed, now, and it can't go back to the comfortable, easy way it was before.

...

* * *

...

To say that put a damper on our week would be an understatement of epic proportions.

I can't help but dwell on the previous events, and I find myself overwhelmingly grateful at the news we've just received—that the man and his family won't press charges. They were too kind, really, the one time I met them. The children, I could tell, were terrified, and there were at least five doctors, all ready to restrain me, should I try to injure him again. I broke his arm, and sprained his ankle, and gave him about five bruises in the abdominal area, and one ferocious kick to the groin, apparently—I don't remember any of it—but it was obvious, close up, that he wasn't who I thought he was. I apologized, and Aeris explained to them that I had been under a lot of stress, and apparently it showed, because they both assured us—he and his wife—that they weren't interested in pressing charges. Aeris could've fallen and their feet, I know that from her expression, but she refrained for fear of probably scaring them even more than I had.

Anyway. We're sitting in the lobby, Aeris thumbing through a magazine at impossible speeds and me reading and re-reading the same sentence in _Pride and Prejudice_. It doesn't matter, really, though, I realize, as I glance at the clock. 7:21 AM. I'm leaving for my second job in a couple minutes.

When timer in my head goes off—two minutes, _diing_!—I stand up. "So. I'll… I'll be back." _What a good-bye._

She just glances at me, nods, trying to look friendly, happy (_she just ends up looking worried_) and puts the magazine on the table.

I don't know if she's going to say anything, but I'm afraid to find out what it is (_what it might be_), so I half-run out the door, forgetting a coat.

...

* * *

...

The walk to Golden Saucer Diner took longer than I expected, and I'm half-rushing and quite out of breath when I arrive.

"Hey, Yuff." So friendly. She doesn't even know me. (_She doesn't know the half of me._)

I give Tifa a weak smile, and slip on the apron. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's fine." Calls Mr. Cloud-Boss from the stove. The smell of breakfast makes my belly rumble and shudder, and I remind myself that, _no, I am not prone to morning sickness, so get your butt in gear and start washing dishes._ Mr. Sir-Boss continues, "Tifa got an early start, and she was pretty much on top of it, so."

This sends a little slice of fear through my cardiac thump-thump. I can't afford to lose this. I can't afford—I can't afford—I can't afford—

"I'll get to work right away." And I do. I've never washed dishes with this much vigor, and when I sit down at break, my stick-arms are strained and shaking and they feel like the muscle is distended and separated from the bones or ligaments or tendons or whatever. _There's got to be a better way around this._ I'll figure it out, 'cause I can't keep doing this, either I'll break my arms and lose the job, or I'll lose it anyway. I can't keep doing this.

I'm sitting there, absentmindedly rubbing Baby with my thumb in constant little circles (_'cause that's all we are—little circles, round and round_) and it reminds me of a lullaby my mother used to sing me, but I'm distracted when Tifa sits down, so I never remember which one. She gives me a friendly smile that I barely notice. "So. I've bought it." Her voice is something of a description-mystery to me. It's soft, but has a husky undertone to it, that gives it a bit of gravel, or something, and she has the loveliest sound to it, and that Nibelheim lilt. It's very pleasant to listen to—maybe too much so, as I find myself completely lost, and wondering if I've missed a part of the conversation.

I give her what must be a dull, blank look, because she laughs. "The building where I'm going to start up my bar! It's not ready, yet, but Cloud's helping me out—apparently he's pretty good with construction, so." She pauses for a second, thinking, before continuing, "Yeah. I'm going to call it, 'Seventh Heaven Bar,' I think."

_What a stupid name for a bar,_ is my real thought, but my mouth has gotten used to not blurting out my first thought when it pops into my head. Rather, "That sounds good." I attempt a smile—it's very weak, unconvincing, I'm sure—but it still reaches the somewhat desired effect. Tifa gives me an almost pitying look, and pats my shoulder as she stands. Her gaze is caught, and she's staring out the window—not at anything in particular—and though it sounds weird to say (_to think_), but I know she's gazing into the future. Whether it's the real one or not doesn't matter, but just the fact that she can look past what's happening now, and think about what will happen, and think happy thoughts (_just think happy thoughts_) is something I know I'll never be able to do. And all at once, I'm so incredibly jealous of her, that I don't trust myself to answer immediately when she asks, "So. How are you?"

How do I ******* look, woman?

My words lodge in my throat, and it takes a couple deep breaths before I can formulate the lie, and the false smile. "I'm fine."

(_Just think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, think happy tho—_)

...

* * *

...

My shift is over, and the light is dying, and I'm walking home when that familiar view assaults me. The park, with its trees—budding, bursting with little green splashes of hope—and everybody going by. That metal bench where I spent the better part of last fall.

Rather than head home to Aeris—it doesn't matter, she'll just think I'm working late—I recalculate my route and follow the path to my bench.

After sitting there in the warm, late-spring night for a minute or so, I'm tempted to do a bit of soul-searching, but I don't know if I want to go there on such a pretty night, so instead I sit there, fingers wrapped around the metal of the bench, drinking in the lights and the people and the warm, fresh night. Don't feel, don't think, don't ask, just exist. It's better to just _not think_, to just sit there and melt away. 'Cause it's just me and Baby and a whole wide world full of people out there, all walking by me, thinking about their jobs, their lives, their kids. 'Cause in the end, I'm the only one looking out for us. Aeris tries, but she's got a whole world that she's bleeding over, and I'm only one in a million.

I pull my wrap a bit closer around us, frowning now. This whole not-thinking-thing is a lot easier thought than done. So I forcibly clear my mind—well. As forcibly as one can. And it works. (As much as it can.)

I don't know how long I sit there, unconsciously stretching out the arms of my black wrap, when someone sits down next to me. And somehow, even before I give him a glance, I know who it is. I just know that it's Reno. He walks home around this time, and he used to meet me sometimes as I sat here—but that was before the argument. Either way, the thought of him finding me—coincidence?—on such a beautiful night is a pretty thought, and I smile. I don't know how I know it's him, but I do.

…That's why, when I turn to tell him I knew it was him, I'm _completely_ shocked when I see Valentine observing me. Vincent. Valentine. Y'know, the multi-millionaire-super-genius? Yeah, yeah! _That_ Vincent. Not the other one.

To say that my jaw drops is a bit of an overstatement. I simply give him a shocked look, glance away, and look back. He's still there.

Oh.

"Oh."

"I've had warmer greetings." The clench in my gut reminds me why I didn't like the sound of his voice. I stand quickly, take a couple restless steps forward, and then turn, scratching the back of my head. "Sorry. I jus-I just, uh… W-well, I-uh… You su-surprised me." _Are making surprising me into a habit, apparently._

He smiles. Leviathan, he's gorgeous—_but money's always gorgeous, _my begrudging mind sulks, _money has a soft, easy beauty that comes from a lack of stress and free time._ _Probably waxes his eyebrows every two weeks on the dot, facials and manicures too—most likely a complete metro—_I'm distracted when he speaks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean surprise you, but I figured you'd notice if I just sat down. I believe I failed to factor in the fact that you were deep in thought." My nasty thoughts are shoved aside involuntarily at the sound of his voice—past the rasp, there's a content, light, laughing tone. It's familiar, somehow, and incredibly pleasant to contemplate. Until, that is, my mind catches up. _Laughing at you_, it whispers, singsong and mocking, but I try to ignore it. It doesn't work very well, and rather than let my face show my discomfort, I glance at the closed, darkening twilight, the emptying, personless path around me, and pull my wrap a bit closer around myself.

Alone, with a man, in the darkening world around me—not safe, _not safe_ murmurs my mind, and I quickly steer my thoughts away from _what happened last time_ and I suck in a deep breath through my gritted teeth and glance around again, but there's no comfort in the long, demon-shadows. They're crawling closer and closer, and I can see their claws, see how they're wicked and hooked and deadly, and it sends little pricks of panic into my bloodstream, where they lodge themselves in my heart. It hurts to breathe now, an-and there's a whispering figure sidling behind an oak to my right steps on a twig—right there!—resulting in a tiny _crack_, but my flung gaze isn't quick enough to catch him before he vanishes behind it. The night is slowly stretching and waking, coming alive in the stalking darkness, and it's raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Another _snap!_, closer now, jerks my head around, and I freeze, every muscle ten- "Are you alright?"

I jump, and turn back to Valentine, my mind blank and whirling. It takes a second for me to understand what he says, but my mouth is already off and running, bubbling the first thoughts that leak from my muddled mind. "W-what? Oh—I'm f—I just-I'm—thought I heard-d-nevermind, t-though, j-just the wind—I-I'm f-fine." I barely manage to stutter through a response (my most unintelligible yet), listening to the adrenaline pounding through my veins, and my heart thump-thumping in my ears. The thought_ you're looking very crazy right now_ doesn't help, so I launch myself headfirst into a stammering question, the better to head off any other questions before he can formulate them. "So. So—I d-didn't think y-you'd remember. I tho-thought you had f-f-forgotten. Y'know. M-me." I cast him a weak, apologetic smile, "N-not that I'd b-blame you, after all, thi-th-this is m-me we're t-talking ab-bout." St-st-stutter. There's a bitter taste in my mouth at the voicing my incoherent mumblings.

His expression curious, he answers, but he's observing me the entire time in a way that makes me shift my shoulders and pull my wrap even tighter around me, uncomfortable. And not quite at the fact that he's staring at me, more that he's even _looking_ at me. "No…" his words are slow and deliberate, because he's_ actually _thinking_ about what he's saying_, I scoff to myself,_ unlike _you. "I remembered. I remember. And I apologize for not finding you sooner. I had some business I had to attend to—business that took a great deal longer than I thought it would." There's a darker, angry undertone to his words that makes me wonder, but I don't question it, staying quiet because there's not much left for me to say.

The silence continues for a long moment before I break it, for lack of anything better to do. "W-why'd you come?"

He glances at me, but answers. "To find you." There's a could-be-innocent confused cock to his eyebrow, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, but it's not.

My cynicism won't bend down its head so easily. It rears up, and I frown, mistrustful, and ask, "W-why? I'm j-just the ch-chick who f-freaked, and sp-spazzed out on y-you and cr-cracked her h-head open."

"Not at all. You're the charmingly surpriseable, lovely lady who I put in the hospital. And I still haven't made that up to you." I figure charming is just his thing, just a habit, since there's nothing he could want from me (_not-nothi—the freezing knife pressing into your skin—warning—whisper—growl in your ear—nothing he could want nothing he could want nothing he co—)_. I bite my lip, hating the look of vulnerability it is, but not being able to stop my instinctual reaction to not knowing what to say. I settle on, "Ho-how'd you know I-I'd b-be here?"

That beautiful smile is shown again for a second of thought, before he responds. "There's this very interesting woman I met who spent a lot of time here, watching the people go by, and I thought she might be here." My shocked expression must speak for itself, because he laughs. "And your friend may or may not have told me that you'd probably be here." Definitely socially retarded. That, _or_ Mr. Darcy straight out of the book. (So, socially retarded then.)

"Ah." A small smile tugs the corner of my lips up. "I s-see."

He glances at the watch on his wrist, which surprises me for an air-headed second, 'cause I expected him to have a pocket watch, or something antique and archaic. "It's getting late."

"Y-yeah," I mumble, glancing around at the lengthening dark. Like I hadn't noticed. "I-I should b-be heading h-home."

"Allow me to walk you there?" Lovely.

"Sure." This is setting up to be the most awkward walk of all time. Why didn't I just go home immediately?_ Oh, come on._ A bit of my brain reprimands me. _This is what you wanted, right? A week ago, you'd've killed for this walk, so don't complain. _I somehow manage to argue and contradict myself—further proof of my insanity, but I'm used to it by now. _Maybe I will complain. Hmm? How about that? Anyway, complaining is good for the heart. Emotional exercise._

What had changed, though, I wonder? Why would I have killed for this walk just a bit ago, and now dread it?

Me. I decide. I had changed. Ever since that... shopping trip. Or hospital trip. Whichever you like to call it. Maybe I'm more cynical now, maybe I'm more jaded—I don't know. But that's when it changed. I glance at Vincent. He's still here, though. Not that that changes anything. He doesn't know what happened, after all.

He stands. Thanks to Leviathan he doesn't offer me his arm or anything, and we walk in silence for a block or two, before he gives me a glance. "I hope you weren't offended at my rather late response?"

"No." I shake my head to punctuate. "After a-all, y-you're a v-very bu-busy person." The words are the right ones, but I'm not sure if I'm really ready to just drop all the feel-good, righteously angry emotions. It had hurt to hear nothing from him. It had hurt me, and it had hurt my pride to be forgotten (despite what he may say.).

Nevertheless, he laughs at the lie—I wonder if he actually _knows_—and I smile at his response. "I won't deny that."

I leave it at that, and we're silent all the way to the Inn. He stops me before I enter. "That lunch offer still stands, you know. After all, I need to make it up to you somehow."

Make what up? The fact that I cracked my head open? Too late. I'm already seeing things. (Ah ha. Ha. Cough.) There's not a gorgeous millionaire asking me to lunch. Again. That's not the way my luck and I roll. Nevertheless, it seems the best choice is to just play along with this not-happeningness, like the way one might just _play along_ with winning the lottery. "A-alright…" I frown and think before I speak—something that's actually hard for me, so don't laugh. (Maybe not that hard. I just don't... ever do it. So.) "Uh… When's g-good for you?"

"Tomorrow?" His response takes me by surprise—expecting, through habit, something that delayed the date—but I force myself to answer first, rather than be taken aback, which contradicts my usual course of _attempting_ (not succeeding) to think before I speak. (But I'm simply a cocktail of contradictions tonight.) "S-sure." Still stuttering. Still stumbling.

"Twelve?"

I nod, but add for good measure, "Alright."

"I'll pick you up." Good. No other way for me to get anywhere than walk, and I have no clue where he wants to meet, or anything. Or how far away it would be. I'm not going to be walking the world for this guy, I'll tell you that much. "Right, s-see you t-then."

He nods, and I step inside, force myself not to look over my shoulder. I feel the little hormone-induced shivers somewhere near my stomach, but I dismiss them._ He wouldn't think of me like that anyway. He obviously expects me to have a boyfriend, or something like that, like anybody would. _(_Should._)

The door shuts unwillingly and _Chiinngg!_ goes the winning ticket, delivered express-shipping into my hand, and I'm holding the jackpot in my clutched, slightly perspiring palm, disbelief slowly draining through the muddle of my mind. Lunch is on, apparently, but… didn't I—wasn't I angry at him?

My screwy mind won't recall, so I shake my head and remind myself not to resent good luck. Good luck, right? I mean—

My awkward uncomfortableness has faded automatically, the second I close the door. Nevermind the fact that, hours ago, Aeris and I weren't even talking. Everything's different now.

My mind shakes its figurative head at this, knowing that going to _lunch_ with someone doesn't change everything, but I allow me to delude myself. "Uh… Aeris." It takes me a second—like I'd forgotten her name. "Yo." By way of greeting—not the most formal, or conventional, but it works. She's standing behind the counter, a book open in front of her.

She glances up and around, and smiles when she sees me. Too forced, too bright, like she's trying to make up for not speaking to me all day. "Hey. How was work?"

I pause for a moment, in the act of taking off my black wrap. After a thoughtful glance in Aeris's direction—I notice she's not wearing her usual color of pink, instead, a flattering white dress that accentuates and proves the fact that she's an Angel, 'cause angels always wear white—I shake my head. "It sounds like we're lesbian lovers when you ask that."

Silence pounds for a measure (_one, two, three, four_) before Aeris answers. "Right, right… okay. Alright. Uh… when you left, earlier, where the heck did you go? After all, I can't know such intimate details about you, like the fact that you have a second job, or what-_ever_." She flicks her hair in playful annoyance and her eyes are lit up with wanting to play this pretend game with me, wanting to forget the silent morning.

I've already started for the kitchen, but I throw an answer over my shoulder. "Work was good, honey."

"Shut up." I hear her whine from the lobby, stuck behind the counter until I come to relieve her of her shift. Hah—she's just bought herself five more minutes of counter-time.

I fill the kettle, and put it on the stove, and, rather than go talk to her, lounge back on the counter to wait. I can almost hear her neck cracking and straining as she tries to peer around the far corner, or through the wall—both impossible feats. "Are you putting the kettle on?"

"Hmm… maybe." I call, grinning evilly.

"Oh, come on!"

"You could just come over here."

"But if I do that, you'll rub it in my face that I left when you didn't, or bring up the time that I told you off for leaving when it was your shift, _even though someone came while you were gone_-"

"Yes." I cut over her. "Do you want something? Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"I'd prefer coffee."

I pause, thinking this over. Caffeine? At this time of night? What time is it anyway? I furrow my eyebrows, frown, and question the wall, "Aren't you going to bed in an hour or so?"

"Caffeine doesn't affect me," she calls around the corner. I stop for a second. How does caffeine _not_ affect someone? Could someone be so lucky? Or unlucky—depending on your point of view. It would be unlucky for me, but lucky for her. Interesting… however, completely off-point. I shake my at this thought process and call back to her, "Lucky you!" Pause for another second, but decide to be kind. "So, coffee then?" Even if I would have to make a pot. I could use it later in my shift.

How late was it gonna go, again? I frown as I think about it. They were probably good, long hours I could be lounging in bed for, rather than reading some stuck-up, fancy-pants book while waiting for _someone_ to come to this godforsaken—Aeris distracts me by answering with a "Yes, please." How can she manage to _sound_ like an Angel? _I_ will never master that.

"One cup, coming up." I feel mischievous as I add, "When I feel like it." Even if she can't see me sticking my tongue out at her.

"Yuff-ieeee," she whines, with a tiny bang on the counter that's probably her little fist, "that's not fair. Or nice. I'm nice to you when you're stuck here."

"Oh, right. Very nice. I just can't take bathroom breaks, or I'll be executed."

"Oh!" She huffs in annoyance—probably 'cause I won't stop bringing this up, "You know I apologized about that."

"Once dead, apology never accepted."

"Meanie!"

I'm mature enough not to answer this, and stay quiet until the coffee pot beeps at me. 'Cause it's _that_ high-tech. Gotta love it. I pour some into one of those Styrofoam cups, grab a handful of sugars and two creamers and balance them all in one hand. "Coffee's done!" I trill, dancing around the corner and unloading on the counter. "You're welcome." I deadpan, before she has a chance to say anything. Still in a flat, bored tone, I mock, "Would you like a foot massage with that?"

She gives me a crooked play-along smile. "Weeell… now that you mention it…"

"Yeah. Bye." And I disappear into the kitchen, before she starts taking off her socks. Her giggle chases me as I slide across the hardwood and make it to the stove just as the kettle starts whining. "What do you have to complain about?" I mutter, giving the stove a quiet kick before I turn it off. It shudders in annoyance, but has no weapons to fight back, so it's forced to squeal at me through the slowing yet still boiling water in the kettle, which I remove from the stovetop, leaving it weaponless and voiceless.

I'm back in the lobby in another minute, some peppermint tea clutched between my paws. Even if it's not cold outside, I do love a hot drink at night. Or some sake. But a hot drink is good too. I give her a nod, motioning with one hand to the counter. "Anyone come by?"

"Yeah. Room 52. She says she's staying for a couple days. It-Yuffie! It's all right here, in the book. You could try reading that."

"Yeah, but your hand writing is chicken scratch. I'd hate to try to unscramble it. Waste valuable time, y'know? Time where I _could_ be picking my nose, or painting my nails, or reading. Something valuable like that."

"If _my_ writing is chicken scratch, I'd hate to see what they call _yours_."

"'Calligraphy.' 'Beautiful lines.'" I can't think of any other phrases that could be used for good writing, but it doesn't matter as Aeris continues where I left off. "'Unreadable,' and 'illegible' and-" I cut over her. "I've heard it both ways."

She waves her hands in the air, waving the subject away like a fly buzzing in her face. Obviously much more important things to talk about. "So! What did _Valentine_ want?" She looks so excited that I have to smile, but I take my sweet time answering, just to torture her. "Not much…" I take a couple steps toward the counter, and put my elbows on it. "He's… taking me to lunch tomorrow." I take a drink of my peppermint tea to stop myself from saying anything else. Better let the conversation unfold naturally rather than force it along.

Aeris beams. "Oooh!" And she has the nerve to waggle her eyebrow suggestively.

I shoot up straight. "Aeris! He doesn't care. He's obviously not thinking about me like that." _Quite obviously._ But I don't add that. The conversation doesn't need my negativity added to it. It comes naturally enough, although Aeris is great at not acknowledging it. And cue pout. She's always been great at that. "Who says?"

Furrowing my eyebrows at her, I respond with the obvious, "_I_ say." She obviously hasn't thought this through, but I don't blame her. She's too ready for a fairy-tale, but this isn't one. "I'm _pregnant_. He's not like that, anyway."

"Like what?"

I gape at her naivety. "I—! He's—men!" I take a leaf out of her book and wave my hand airily over my head. "You know they're only after one thing."

"Well, what about your friend Reno? _He's_ not only after on-"

I choke on my tea. Reno? Not only after women? Not only after sex? Not only after anything with breasts? "Oh, Leviathan!" I dissolve into fizzy, bubbly giggles. "Y-You don't—you have no clue. You _so_ don't know him!"

Rather than pout again, she simply concedes. "Okay, I don't." Pauses for a second to take a drink of her coffee. "Ah. So, men. Only after one thing." Apparently Reno was her only defense for the gender. "But still!"

"And he probably assumes I have a boyfriend."

"Why?" Leviathan, this girl doesn't think things through.

I raise an eyebrow and narrow my other eye. "Uh, 'cause I'm frackin' preggers?" Con actitud. A la mode. Whatever that means.

"Oh, yeah, well _he_ doesn't know that."

"I–" I pause, stunned. Shockingly, this has never occurred to me.

"I mean, come on, you're not showing that much. And it can easily pass as… I dunno. Puppy fat. Not being in shape."

"But." It makes sense. How would he know if I didn't tell him? But, there's something tickling the back of my mind, some memory trying to knock on my brain's front door. "_Oh!_" I say, stupidly, as I remember. "T-the—at the hospital, when I fell. The stupid murse was like, 'The baby wasn't harmed,' etc., so unless he's really unobservant, then he _does_ know."

"Oh." Aeris has no response for this. "Yeah… well-"

"No 'well.' End of discussion." I seal this with a severe frown. I know she doesn't take it seriously by the lights in her eyes, but it doesn't stop her from mirroring my face. "Huff!" She huffs, furrowing her eyebrows and folding her arms. Classic pout. She pulls it off nicely.

After a second of her not moving, I get bored and cock my head. "Let's act like adults?" I try, a bit tentatively.

"No. I don't feel like it right now." Well. At least she's honest.

I consider this for a moment, then shrug. "Alright. Suit yourself."

"I think that's what I'm doing."

I grin. "Well, no argument there."

She suddenly breaks into a light giggle, and shoves me.

I'm silent for another moment, before I decide to be nice. It's not like she has eyes in the back of her head, and can see the clock hanging on the wall behind her. I flick my gaze pointedly to it. "I think your shift is over."

"Oh, thank you God!" She jumps from behind the counter, and I take her place at a much slower pace. I'm not rushing to trap myself for five hours, or however long it's going to be. I hate the night shift, but what can I do? It's Aeris. I'd do any crazy-houred shift for her, dangit. She is an Angel, after all. You gotta be nice to Angels, or so I'm told.

"So. Are you heading to bed?"

She gives me a glance, then turns up her nose and walks a few steps away. "Sure. Fine." Prissy-like, and all, but she's still laughing in her eyes. "Or… I could stay and keep you a bit of company for a little. Depends on how keen you are to get rid of me."

"Me? Want to get rid of you? Never." I deftly draw a cross mid-air with my finger. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Please don't."

"What?" Frown, confused momentarily.

She scoffs and rolls my eyes at my dumb-slash-slow-ness. "Uh—die? _Duh_!"

"Oh." Now a bright, sunshine-y grin. "I promise that I'll try not to."

She exhales the words in a slow breath. "Well. That's good enough."

"Really? You trust _me_ with just an 'I promise to try not to?'"

She heaves a dramatic sigh, and puts her coffee cup down. "I'll have to make do with it, I suppose."

"Yes," I fake-sigh, dropping my chin dramatically on my fist, "I suppose you will."

"So…"

"So."

"Valentine, huh? Really? To tell you the truth, I never expected to see him again. Not that I ever did, after all I only saw him on TV, but still. I figured he'd poofed. Just didn't want to tell you that—after all, you had all your hopes set on him—"

My mouth springs open like an over-stuffed closet door. "I-what? I beg your pardon? 'All my hopes set on him,'—Oh, I hope you have a good lawyer, young lady, 'cause I'm suing you for slander!" Aeris gives me a second-long sideways glance, severe enough to tell me I'm being silly, light enough to tell me she thought it was funny, before flicking her hair in my face. Not exactly purposefully, but it helped the whole mood along quite nicely. "Pfft." I deadpan, scratching my nose.

"Oh, sorry." Cue giggle. "Did I actually hit you? I'm sorry."

"No, no. I love eating hair. Especially at midnight."

"It's not midnight. It's eight o'clock."

"Same difference."

Cue deep and shuddering sigh. "Not _really_, Yuffie. See, we have these things called _clocks_. And on these clocks, there are these little squiggly things called numbers. One of those numbers is 8. One is 12. Twelve and Eight are _not the same_. Repeat after me? Not. The. Same."

"Not the same." I chant obediently, staring at the clock.

"Yes! Good!" And she throws me a grin over her shoulder, as she moves further into the lobby part of the entry, farther away from the counter. I make a point to catch the smile, and slip it into my pocket if I ever need something pretty and mesmerizing to distract people with. She takes a sip of her coffee, and sighs, sliding onto the couch. "So…"

"So…" I repeat automatically, my gaze glued, fixed, hooked on the wallpaper. I make a half-hearted attempt to look away, but I suddenly feel _so_ tired. The simple lack of thought, the monotone buzzing in my head is so tempting that I don't have the energy, don't have the urge—courage—to look away now.

And it's weird. I can feel the mood change in a second, the second she opens her mouth. I know what she's going to say, what she's going to bring up, and how this will turn into an uncomfortable, time-to-face-the-big-subjects conversation, and I really don't want it to, not after it was so light, and fun, and funny, so I desperately cast around for an easy, laughing subject to slip in the way of the big, potentially-important, yet difficult subject—a conversation road block. I open my mouth, ready to spit out the first, hare-brained thought that pops into my head, when the door opens.

A customer.

I thank Leviathan.

...

* * *

...

Didn't sleep again. Nightmares, memories, whatever they are, all muddled and messed up and tangled in my head, and their only escape is out my eyes—or so I'd figure. Hallucinations were never my style.

...

* * *

...

I'm a monster when I wake up with no sleep—which is technically impossible, but I think managed to doze for a millisecond before I had to get up.

I stomp down the stairs, feeling like there are two puffy leeches under my eyes, and I give one glance at Aeris, behind the counter, and know for a fact—"At least _you_ slept well."

"Don't worry," She assures in a tone that promises I should, "You'll look perfect when I'm done with you."

Am I only imagining the evil smirk to her lips? Oh, God, save me…

...

* * *

...

END.

Aaaand, we shall see what you think.

Cheesy way to end a chapter, I know... xD

If you find any errors, problems, etc., let me know? :D

AND YES. I HAVE A PLOT. Just so you know. 8D


	4. Assault and Bobby Pin

_Author's Note:_

_'kay. well. this is a lot shorter than the others. but that's 'cause the others are hugely long. I'm still trying to find a good length._

_buuuut, shorter chapters mean quicker updates. so tell me guys, which do you prefer? short chapters and quicker updates, or long chapters and slower updates?_

...

* * *

...

_iv._** Assault and Bobby Pin**

**...**

"Ow-ow-ow! Your-you're _pulling_ my _HAIR_!" The last word is screamed as Aeris half-scalps me. Her response is incredibly callous for an Angel, as she scoffs, "Oh! Grow up—stop complaining and hold still."

"_You're burning me! It burns!_"

"One _second_!"

"No! No!"

"Yuffie! Stop! _Hold still!_"

"Aaagh!" My death cry echoes in the mostly empty bathroom, but there's no caring person to come rescue me. The only other being in the room is intent on pulling out each hair on my head.

"St-stop—Yuffie! Stop it!"

"No! It burns!"

"I'm not kidding! I will pull out your hair if you don-"

"No!"

"_HOLD STILL_!"

"No! You're killing me!" I writhe away from the pain, but it follows me with a strong _yank_!

"Yuffie—I'm _NOT_ kid-No! Stop!"

"Aagh! Stop it! You're hurting me!"

"Yu-"

"_HELP!_ Help! Crazy woman with a curling iron!"

"Stop it!"

"You're pulling my hair out!"

"Well, I wouldn't if you'd _hold stil_-"

"Ow-ow! _OW_! That ******* hur-"

"Yuffie, it can't hurt tha-"

"It does! It _BURNS_! You're _frying_ my ha-"

"Shut up! Stop moving! _AAAGH!_ _HOLD_ _**STILL**_!"

As her scream pierces and derails the very innards of my ear, I freeze—absolutely and completely unmoving—not breathing, and I'd stop my heart if I could.

There's a splutter of disbelieving annoyance as Aeris de-tangles the barrel-hair-dryer-slash-curling-iron from my curl.

A shiny lock of hair drops onto my nose, and I scrunch it up, tickled. One glance at the mirror shows a bouncy, smooth corkscrew, falling somewhere near and above my jaw line.

"Oh." I comment, casual and appreciative. "That looks nice."

Aeris is a stony, stormy, quite loud silence, before she heaves a melodramatic sigh and mutters, "One down, a million to go."

...

* * *

...

"Okay. Don't talk with your mouth full. Don't turn the conversation back to yourself. Don't put your elbows on the table. Listen to him and make appreciative comments, like, 'Oh! Really?' 'That's so great for you.' And, 'Why, yes, you are my greatest hero!'"

"Wh-what?" I almost splutter in laughing disbelief. "Aeris! Ayy! I can't believe you."

But apparently she's not done, as she continues, desperately smoothing and plucking and perfecting my curls in a panicky way, "Don't laugh too loudly. Make sure there's nothing in between your teeth when you're done. Look around and how everyone else is doing what they're doing and take your cue from that. Don't be smarter than him—but don't act too air-headed. Don't be openly flirty—"

This time, I _do_ splutter, but it's just from plain incredulity. "_Openly_ flirty? As opposed to what? Covertly flirty? Jeez! Aeris! What do you think I'm going to be doing with him? Having _lunch!_ This isn't a date. He's a freaking _stranger_—what do you think is going to happen?"

This catches her by surprise, and she's silent for a second before her mind re-tracks. "A happy marriage and lots of babies?"

"O—_what_? I-AY! _You_!" I stand up, shaking my head. This causes an avalanche of curls to dismount from their perches on top of my head, and end on my nose. I frown, and blindly reach for one of the bobby pins that Aeris had been experimenting with, missing several times and sending a cascade of little metal pins pinging to the tile. As I pin them back, I fix her with a steady stare. "You're more nervous than _I_ am, and I'm the one having lunch with the – the, uh…" _With the poor *******. _I trail off, but am luckily saved by the door opening.

We're in the upstairs bathroom, but we can always tell when the door opens, not by the jangling cowbell (Aeris swears it's not, but it'll always remain a cowbell to me) but by the _Scree—CRUNCH_ _urrrr THONK_ as poor entrants attempt to open the so incredibly _not-hollow_, unwilling door.

Aeris freezes, like a rabbit would under a car's tire.

Shaking my head, I brush past her, and start down the stairs.

_BAD IDEA._ Mixing me with heels on any occasion is a risky business, but me, stairs, and high heels? That's just asking for serious injury.

I swear. I'm not as clumsy as I seem.

After clomping and stumbling and sliding down the stairs, I flail, my arm thwacks something—I'm not quite sure what—but it's solid and I grab on for dear life.

"Why does this seem so familiar?"

I hear the voice, and my first thought is _Oh, crap! If there was ever a worse position for Vincent to find me in, I don't know what__—_ and my second is _Wait—that's not his voice._

...

* * *

...

Five minutes later, and I'm sitting in the unofficial lobby of the Inn—sitting properly, not with my legs crossed, or on the coffee table or anything. (I finally look the part of the lady I'm not.) Reno's sitting across from me, listening (I would assume) to my description of how Aeris mangled my hair.

If my bottom half is proper, I suppose it's a step in the right direction, but my upper-half is anything but. My dress has slipped a bit, and may be revealing a bit more than one would wish—depending on the one—and I'm half-shouting, waving my arms to further animate my point. My cheeks are probably getting flushed by my vivacious re-enactments, as they always do, but I'm enjoying myself too much to care. I always love exaggerating.

"I'm arresting you for Assault and Bobby Pin!" I cry, a tad too much sadistic glee in my voice.

Aeris heaves a dramatic sigh. "Well, if being beautiful's a crime-"

"-Honnn-ey! You would've been born in jail!" Gushes Reno effeminately, playfully smacking her arm. There's a highly mischievous gleam in his eye.

I drown out their laughter with the most unflattering, unladylike snort the world has ever seen. "Doesn't change the fact that you were _mangling_ my hair, '_honnney_.'"

Aeris cuts in with a snort of her own, managing to sound much prettier while she does it. "If _mangling _is making your hair look better than it ever has, then I think Webster needs a kick in the—"

"Fine! Fine. It looks nice, but _still_! You were vicious with that thing. I swear, you could like, fend off any assailant with that! You could burn them, grab their hair with the horrible little hooks, and tear it out! They'll be sobbing for mercy after a minute."

"It only took _you_ thirty-seconds!"

"_HEY!_ Are you saying I'm weaker than the average attacker? I take offense at that!"

Reno cuts in—"I can't agree with that, Aeris. She's given me more scars than I've gotten from my _job_."

I cut over him. "Well, you were a wuss in your job, and you're a wuss now, so I doubt it really means anything—"

"_Who'ya callin' wuss, pansy?_"

"Who're ya calling pansy, chicken?"

"Who'ya calling—"

"_Enough!_" Aeris giggles.

"Maybe not. He still hasn't gotten it drilled through his head—"

"After a year of living with you? _Tch!_ I've gotten enough stuff drilled through my head—pardon if I don't prefer something else to add to the collection."

I smack him. "I don't _get you_. How can you make anything sound like a dirty joke?"

"Life is a dirty joke!"

"I think I'm putting that on your gravestone." This elicits a laugh from Aeris and Reno.

The silence lasts about twenty seconds, until Reno finally breaks it. "So, believe it or not, I actually came for a reason. I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to—you know that guy in the park?—well, go grab hot dogs, you know that vendor dude in the park and, uh. Take a walk. He's still there."

"Oh," I almost wince, from the acute _shame_—it couldn't be shame, wrong word. What is this awkwardness suddenly crawling through my veins?—"Uh—I… I already had plans." I _do_ wince, biting my lip.

While his delivery may seem offhand, I know him too well for that. Reno's a real shy guy—I know this after a year of living with him (not with_-with_—we were roommates! Jeez)—when it comes to stuff that really matters to him, and I know how hard it would be for him to get the courage to ask me something like that. He's a pretend-tough-guy, and anything that damages that image would be awkward for him to admit to, or anything of the like.

His face doesn't show anything except an easy grin. "Or _that_." Or maybe I'm over-thinking it all. "Gee, way to shoot down my Sunday."

I grin, but feel some sort of weight settle down in my stomach. Why today? I would've killed to spend some time with him. He breaks into my thoughts with his next words, "So that's what's with the getup."

Getup? I glance down at my dress, and a curl bounces onto my nose. "Oh." For lack of a better word. A better response. A better excuse. "Yeah."

"Well!" Aeris huffs unexpected, breaking the awkward that had hung in the air like humidity, "I feel snubbed. S'okay. I didn't want hot dogs anyway." And she turns her nose up haughtily. It catches Reno and me by surprise, and he grins, while I let out an uncontrollable giggle. This seems to be Aeris' intent, because she smiles in response.

But Reno's next words have us dying of laughter, as he turns to her, a sly smile on his lips. "I'm putting that on your gravestone—'I didn't want hot dogs anyway.'"

The door rudely interrupts us with a groan, as someone outside pushes their weight against it. It barely budges.

I fall silent like someone's punched me in the mouth. That could only be…

The door still seems to be struggling with the decision to let the poor man in, and I stand up to go help.

As if that's all the incentive the door needed, it decides to let him in. _Somehow_ he manages to look elegant as he then sidles through the barely open door, and I stifle my giggles at the couple seconds of confused pushing and navigating until he finally is standing—tall and willowy, still, but a bit rumpled—in the foyer.

"H-hey." St-stutter. I frown. "That d-door is always a bit… uh… stuck." I finish lamely, for lack of a better word.

Vincent glances back at it, and, dare I say?, snorts. "I'll keep that in mind."

I give Reno one look, and decide he either watches the news or, for some inexplicable reason, has read the Veere's Richest People list.

It's a stupid magazine.

...

* * *

...

What really surprises me is that he drove here himself. I had imagined a chauffeured car with an imposing, probably bald driver. Nope. The car—very clean, almost unused looking—doesn't look particularly fancy or expensive either, which I appreciate, because I'd feel ultimately uncomfortable on shiny leather seats that my mere presence defiles. It's… normal. Almost. I haven't driven anywhere in… well… years, since I live in Edge and nearly everything is within fifteen minutes of walking. But that aside, it's normal.

Which I appreciate.

And 'round and 'round in deflated, lopsided circles go my thoughts. He seems content with silence, and I'm not about to push it.

We've been driving for a bit when I realize I don't really recognize where we are, and that worries me, but I have Aeris' cell phone in my pocket, and I know I can call her if anything happens. The thought comforts me, even more so, the fact that Reno is most likely there too. If I need him, he will come.

Fact being, driving to an unknown destination with someone who's practically a stranger, in their car, far away from my home… I chomp down on my lip, annoyed, and automatically rest a hand on my stomach. _Stop thinking like that._

I distract me. "Where are we g-going?"

He responds lightly, with no hesitation. (Not that that's an indication of his motives, but had he acted shifty about it, I would've jumped out of the car right then.) "There's a very good Wutaian restaurant that I discovered a year or two ago. A bit remote, but very good sushi."

My stomach rumbles at the word "sushi," and I give a hacking cough to try to cover it up. Judging from his chuckle, it didn't work, and I flush red and radiate awkward like a space heater.

This doesn't seem to bother Vincent, however. Lucky him.

I remember some vague chit-chat, no real conversation, but most of the car ride is the same blur that I watched fly past the window.

As we enter the restaurant, I'm relieved to see that a.) I'm not over or underdressed, and b.) there are other people in here. I had this odd thought that there'd be nobody else there. That would've been supremely awkward.

The host…er? Host. The… man-dude who greets us knows Vincent by name, which I don't find odd, since when I used to eat out with my father, they knew both him and me by name. What I do find odd is the reverence that this guy is treating him with, the little bobbing half-bows and nodding and ducking and all that. I've seen a bunch of people act like that to Dad, and he's a frickin' Mighty God of Wutai. A sneaking suspicion starts worming its way to the front of my mind. Did… does he…?

As we are seated (Vincent pulls the chair out for me), I give him a serious look. "D-do you _own_ the restaurant?"

"Yes." He replies simply, with a hint of a laughing smile.

"Oh."

Silence. Vincent looks like he's valiantly trying not to laugh. The nerve of him.

"You said you _discovered _it."

"Yes." He steeples his spider-fingers. "And then I bought it." There's an actual chuckle in his voice. (Yes. _In_ his voice. Figure that one out.)

"Oh."

Silence.

"So… w-what's good here then?"

"Everything."

"Oh."

Silence.

I cringe mentally at my lack of intelligence and make up for it by opening the menu. Uh. Sushi. There's a start.

I don't really read any sushi combinations, or lunch specials that are screaming at me in misspelled Common, instead, I'm thinking. There's something in the way he looks at me that I _don't_ like. Not calculating. Or maybe calculating. But more like I'm silly, missing out on the big joke. Or maybe I am the joke. Or maybe it's my cynicism. Why on earth would he bother with me? What could he want from me—except the obvious? And why would he even _want_ the obvious from me? There's a thousand better candidates. Or maybe it's that laughing tone behind everything he says, like he knows something I don't.

I'm distracted by a waiter, so thin he looks like he's been cleaned and pressed along with his sharp black garb, who appears so suddenly tableside I wonder if he'd been hiding under the table.

Now, I've grown up speaking Wutaian. I've grown up hearing Wutaian spoken around me. I've grown up in _Wutai_. This guy chirps it so friggin' fast that I glance blankly at Vincent, still trying to replay the meaningless syllables in my head.

Vincent answers, slower, and I realize he's ordering. The words _kuruma-ebi _and _ae-mono_ register themselves in my head, and I realize he's ordering. Sushi. I make a sarcastic mental note to thank him for ordering for me, because I obviously can't read my own language, or think for myself.

The stick-man politely relieves me of my menu, and disappears as quickly as he appeared. I'm tempted to check for a hole in the ground, but refrain. "S-so." I frown, because I'm not about to let my stuttering get in the way of my indignation. "I actually _can _r-read, you know," Since he's driven me here, and is, theoretically, driving me back I make sure to keep a hint of humor in my tone, but I'm truly wondering. Is he one of those sexist, "You cannot think for yourself" guys? 'Cause that would put a damper on this day. Like _now_.

I mean, Leviathan! He could be one of those horrible egotists, who… has… millions of dollars.

Not that the money means anything.

At all.

Honestly.

…_Argh!_

He gives a quirked, closed smile, and shows no signs of outrage, or other date—_lunch date, going out for lunch, this is not a date, going out for lunch_—ending emotions. "Well," there's a laughing tone to his voice, "as I do know what's good here, and what is best to avoid…" tastefully trails off into an unsaid, _you little loser_. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm paranoid.

"Hmm." It's more of a trill, something characteristic of me. Aeris always laughs when I do it. It's not _that_ funny. Just a little… me. Odd. Weird. One of the three. (Even if they all mean the same thing.) "I t-thought you said everything was good?" I remind him, with a quirked smile. "And what if I d-don't like sushi?" Only one stutter. That must be a new record around him.

The grin is open this time, showing each of his dazzlingly, annoyingly white teeth. "But you do."

"But I do." I concede, smiling also.

...

* * *

...

The sushi is delicious, and we're smiling and talking easily by the time he pays. (Of course I let him, do you think I have any gil to spare? He's taking _me_ out, right?) The car ride back is comfortable and companionable, and I'm suitably charmed (and barely st-st-stuttering). Darn him.

...

* * *

...

The first thing I do, after squeezing through the lazy door is brush past Aeris, who looks as eager as a kid on Christmas, and head straight upstairs to wash the gunk out of my hair.

I do all my best thinking in the shower, and I have a lot to think about. For one, I consider, stripping my black and yellow sundress and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the floor, what was that? Was it actually a lunch date, or was it him just making up for the hospital visit? The feminine black heels are dumped unceremoniously on my bed.

He can't honestly expect anything. Wonderbra and boring cotton panties are disposed of, and end up somewhere on the desk. I mean, I'm—he _knows _I'm pregnant. So…—and he didn't even ask if there was anyone. Which just strikes me as odd, y'know? Wouldn't you expect there to be somebody? My case is _obviously_ not the usual. Isn't that one of the normal… conversation starters?

Not that there was that much normal conversation. I _tried_ to ask him about his past, be he was as tightlipped as I was. Hm. I know _I'm_ hiding something, so I can only assume he is too. I look around the room and curse, when I realize I've forgotten a towel. Cue scurrying naked through the hall. (Thank Leviathan we don't have any guests.)

He wouldn't talk about his company either. Although he did seem to frown when I mentioned his partnership with the Shinra Rat. I tuck towel under my arm, and enter the bathroom.

Regardless, he certainly seems to pursue me with certain intentions in mind, I muse, turning the water on. Freezing cold and then boiling hot. I love these showers. (Note the sarcasm.) And then there's all that charming to consider. Maybe he's like Reno, and flirtatious-slash-charming is a habit that he can't turn off now. Or maybe he actually…

Thinking like that, though, isn't going to help me. It's only going to make things more confusing. I should just… try to play it… normal, I guess. I don't want to expect something from him, and then find out that he couldn't care less. (What am I talking about? He couldn't care less about me. Agh!) So I just need to be… coy…? No… that can't be right.

I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, and am momentarily distracted as it turns into a swirling hurricane at the drain. Foamy arms twist around in circles as it slowly diminishes, turning into a gaping black hole, that leads to who knows where.

Probably a bunch of hair down there too, I think guiltily. (I somehow always forget to use that little hair-catcher thing that Aeris wants me to use, as, imaginably, this room will be used for a paying customer someday.)

(Okay. So I don't forget to use it. But who _wants_ to use it? You have to take the hair out at the end, and it's all ew, and yuck. Grossness.)

So the—urgh! And there's the way he looks at me, sometimes. Which makes me wonder what he's doing here … uh, there. Herethere at all. Like I'm stupid, or. Or. Maybe it's not that. Maybe… I don't know. It's not just simple amusement. I'm not amusing. It's… I don't know. Maybe 'cause there's too much intelligence behind those eyes. I feel like he knows everything. Every-freaking-thing that I've been trying to hide for so long. All the dirty details of my past, all the nightmares—the—the—…

I slam the side of my fist against the cheap, vaguely pink fiberglass covering the shower, head bowed.

_Don't think about that._

...

* * *

...

"So-so-so-so?" Poor thing. You can tell she's been dying down here. Still. That doesn't stop me from being evil.

"So?" Feign confusion.

"Agh! Yuffie! How was itttt?" There's something of a tasteful whine in her voice. Something I can't manage. Whine or no whine for me—I can't do that cutesy half-whining crap.

I blink. What had she asked again? "Uh… what?" I ask, honestly this time. All the thoughts of whining and not whining had driven her last question out of my head.

She obviously thinks that I'm being difficult, because she stops her little foot. "How was your frea-"

"Ohh. That." I had thought about it too much in the shower, I wanted to be done with the affair. "Fine."

Silence. She actually looks almost worried. Finally, brow furrowed, she questions, "F-Fine? That's it? Fine?"

"Yup. It was fine. As in, okay. As in, decent. As in, fine."

"Only okay?"

I glance at her in exasperation. "Okay is good, right? Okay means not not okay, which isn't good, meaning, okay is good."

"Uh. Says who? Okay is passable. Okay isn't good enough!"

"Uh. What do you want me to say? It was about as non-awkward as any date with a millionaire can be."

"Well." Aeris says, looking at her nails, play-acting miffed-ness, "I wouldn't know."

I glance at her and grin. "I'm sure there's a millionaire out there for you somewhere."

"Oh, shut up."

...

* * *

...

_"I'm sure this partnership will benefit both companies greatly." My lip wants to curl, but I keep my mask of impassiveness up, until I'm quite sure of the exact situation. "And ShinRa would be incredibly… grateful, for your acceptance. In return for your help, I'm sure there are certain things we could… help with." There's a sly grin on the young man's face, and for a second I wonder if he _knows,_ but I put the thought out of my mind, because how could he know? It's impossible, I decide, and worrying about it is a distraction I can't afford. I need to focus, to navigate this carefully. One wrong move could send me and everything I've worked for tumbling down._

_I cut over his next well-prepared speech. "I appreciate the offer. However, at this point, I am simply not sure if this is the best course of action for my company." I stand, intending to make this quick, "I am sure you understand."_

_"I do." __Shinra says, same sly smile still sending suspicious signals._

_I turn to leave, and see a bulky sentry by the door to the conference room, the fluorescent lights shining off of his bald head, and reflecting off of his unnecessary sunglasses. I know this trick well—how many times have I used it before?_

_The young man sighs, and shakes his head. "Sit down, Vincent. We are both well aware there is much more going on here, hiding between __wily words and forced formalities." I sit unwillingly, my guard up. If it's a fight he wants, he will get it. I am not about to let him get away with this. I will not be coerced, or frightened, or bullied and strong-armed out of the company—the life I have built._

_"You must be aware of… continued interest, in the happenings of Wutai?"_

_Ah. __Rufus Shinra's new project._

_He continues, "We have reason to believe that inside Da Chao, there is a huge mako fountain. Which would be where all of Wutai's Materia comes from." The last comment is musing, and he shakes himself, and continues. "Regardless. If we are to have total energy __dominance, ShinRa must __control it._

_"However. We currently do not hold the pieces needed to checkmate their silly emperor." He takes a deep breath. "This is where you come in, Valentine."_

_They want weapons. "This is where I leave," I all but snarl._

_I wasn't born in Wutai, but I spent my summers there with my grandmother, when my father was all but married to his job. I was too young to care, too young to blame him, back then, and I spent many weeks roaming the country, playing in the fields, taking in the splendor. Helping to destroy that would be betraying myself._

_I stand, straighten my suit, and assume an icy smile. "Thank you, Rufus, for your ti—"_

_He cuts over me. "I presume, Valentine, you have met a certain Dr. Hojo?"_

_I freeze. My heart nearly stops, and I swear, my blood runs cold—every cliché in the book. I hear a nasally cough behind me._

_"Hello, Vincent. Been getting on nicely?"_

_It stops me like someone has placed a gun to the back of my head. Frozen, like a pathetic deer in the path of an uncaring driver._

_"Sit, _partner_." Rufus motions, smiling victoriously now. "I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on." _He knows,_ I realize, and with it, I realize that all of this is in vain. I realize I have only one option, however loathsome it is._

_The deer hits the pavement, and the driver grins triumphantly._

...

* * *

...

_yay. uh. cough._

_I really am not happy with this chapter, but oh well._

_and yes! Vincent is a bit more... Vincent-y suddenly. :D By the way, the last section happened prior to the events in this chapter-in the three weeks between him first meeting Yuffie and him calling her back._

_Anyway. AU is hard. /whine_


	5. Unexpected Places

_Author's Note: _Wow. Here we are. Another chapter! :D

I need help with chapter titles. They reeeeeally suck. If anyone has any suggestions, let me know.

...

* * *

...

_v._** Unexpected Places**

**...**

He told me he would call me, to see how I was doing, after we parted.

Oh sure.

I highly doubted it. Millionaires, it is said, lead very busy lives, doing… millionairey things. Such as sleeping nude on their stacks of money—oh Leviathan! Brain erase, _erase, erase_!

"Yuffie?"

I jump, guilty, as if the out-of-the-blue, rather graphic image that had just assaulted me could be seen plainly on my face. Aeris is blinking expectantly. (I'm not sure how you can. But Aeris is good at the impossible.)

(Me too, apparently.)

"Uh. What?"

"Reno wants to talk to you."

"Oh. Uh." I figure she must mean on the phone, so I look around, pat the couch I'm sitting on, feel between the cushions, trying to find the phone, which is ever-so-conveniently not where it should be. I don't find it, but I do find the remote for the DVD player. Been wondering where that got to. "Where's the phone?"

She looks confused for a second, before shaking her head. "No, no. He's here, Yuffie."

My turn to look confused. "Oh. Uh. Okay. Where…?" I look around the lobby. (We call that it affectionately. There are two chairs and a miniscule coffee table. No lobby by a long shot.) I almost expect him to jump out from behind the counter, or something.

"He's outside."

I stand. "So why didn't he come in?"

"Don't ask me." She sighs, "Yuffie, he looks a bit upset. Go talk to him."

Upset? Reno? Like heck he is.

"…"

"Go!"

Groan. "Fine."

I wrench open the stupid door and slip outside. The sunshine blinds me, so I shade my eyes, and look around. I catch sight of the familiar red head sitting on a bench across the street. His back is to me, and he's slouched down, arms folded. Perfect pouting stance. What's got to him this time?

I cross the street, and sit down next to him. He barely flicks me a glance. Passersby are seemingly shocked by the absolute glower on his mug, and are giving the bench a wide berth. Oh, honestly. Heave a sigh. "Hello, Reno."

Silence. I glance at his face—slim, his well-defined bone structure casting a shadow on the hollows of his cheeks. His mako-bluish-green eyes are shadowed, and the tattoos, the symmetrical red halfmoons on the rise of his cheekbones make him look something close to demonic. I remember him telling me the story of those tattoos—covering scars, if I remember correctly.

I sigh again. "Alright. I'll bite. What's got your panties in a twist?"

"What were you doing with _him_?"

"Him?" I query politely, though I know full well who he's talking about.

"That… Valentine guy."

"Oh, him? He was making up for indirectly bashing my head on the pavement."

Reno is silent and surly. Oh dear.

"What's it matter to you?"

"I don't like him."

"So?"

"And if I remember correctly," His teeth are gritted, "Last time I—when I asked you if… When I wanted us to be something more, I distinctly remember you saying that you weren't ready for that."

I blink. _Not this again. _"I'm not _dating_ him. It was a _lunch_ date, and yes, there is a huge difference. I'll probably never see him again. And _Leviathan!_ I have more important things to think about." That said, I stand. "And who I am interested in, _if I was even interested in him_, is none of your business."

He gives no response.

I glower. "If you want to act like an adult, you can come in." And flounce back across the street to the Inn door.

My exit is slightly marred by all the pushing, shoving and canoodling as I attempt to open the door, but besides that, I believe it went rather well.

Aeris is frowning when I slip inside, but I ignore it. I take a deep breath, standing in the middle of the "lobby", and am about to say something, when I feel someone tap my shoulder.

I turn to see, _shock!_, that Reno has actually followed me in. He looks a sight less surly, and has more of a grimace than a frown on his face. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"PMS." I manage to deadpan. "Or are you pregnant too?"

...

* * *

...

"To Aeris."

"…Check."

"No, but I take cash."

"Shut up, Reno!"

"Fine. Fifty gil."

"Ooh. High roller. I raise you to eighty."

"Fold."

"Aeris! You can't fold! You haven't even seen the flop yet."

"Watch me."

"Call, Yuffie."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there, Mr. Rushy."

"Mr. Rushy?"

"Shut up. I call."

"And to the flop we go."

"…We're aware, Aeris darling."

"…"

"I'm so glad I got out."

"Shut up, Aeris. Nobody folds before the flop."

"Yuffie, she could've had a Seven-Two—"

"I've _won_ with that."

"Check."

"I check too."

"And to the turn we—"

"Aeris, sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"_Silence!_"

"Sure thing."

"Seventy-seven gil."

"Reno! What can you _possibly_ have? And don't look at me like that."

"Call or fold."

"…Fine. If you're gonna play _that_ game. Call."

"River card."

"…Aeris?"

"Yeah?"

"We're aware!"

"Two hundred gil."

"_Reno!_"

"Call it or fold it, babe."

"Don't call me that. _Call_."

"…"

"Take that, Turkey! Full house, Aces full of Jacks."

"Ha!"

"It…—_what_?"

"I win!"

"…! _Reno!_ How do you have _five_ aces?"

...

* * *

...

"Let's play strip poker." Suggests Reno suggestively.

"Let's play shoot you in the face."

"I believe that's called Russian Roulette."

"And you'd figure out how to cheat with _that _too, I bet." I grumble mutinously.

"Oh. You're just a sore loser."

"Oh sure. Yeah. I'll pull that on you, next time I _slip an ace up my sleeve!_"

"You could, y'know."

I grimace. "I'll slip an ace up _somewhere_." That's probably not the best threat ever, but… whatever.

We lapse into silence. Aeris has left to go pick up some Wutainese takeout, and we're alone for a bit.

Finally, Turkey breaks the silence. "You know, I really am sorry about the way I was acting, earlier."

"Mhmm."

"Totally uncalled for."

I glance at him, a bit wary now, but nod my head. Turkey isn't the one to apologize unless he has to. Therefore, his over-apologizing sends warning flags in my head, but since I can't really figure out what the problem is, I simply respond with, "You're right, it was. Apology accepted," hoping to end the subject.

I get the feeling this wasn't the answer he was looking for, because the silence is a bit more agitated this time, like I can feel him searching for the right words. It is distinctly awkward, and therefore must end immediately. I turn the full power of my gaze on him, and force myself to keep watching him.

Maybe I'm not a meek person by nature, but recently, I've had issues staring people in the eye. So it's a bit of a struggle to make myself _not_ look away, not start babbling and staring at my hands.

Reno seems uncomfortable. He keeps glancing up and glancing down, twisting his hands, nibbling on the inside of his lip.

I heave a sigh and roll my eyes dramatically. "Look, Reno, it's not a big deal, so tell me, please, what the _heck_ is bothe—"

Suddenly, his mouth is on mine, his hand behind my neck, the foot of space between us crossed in a heartbeat. Instinctually, I put a hand on his shoulder, but to push him away or not, I can't decide.

I stiffen as my mind nearly shuts down. A thousand emotions are battling within me, shock, outrage and pleasure, passion and… fear?

His teeth pull oh-so-gently on my lip—but oh-so-scarily like the angry, livid bruises on my arm, _hurt_, his vile mouth on mine—so nervous but inviting, sweet, simple, _wanting_ so desperately—wanting, wanting, wanting so much more—

_Fear._

His hand tangles in my hair—I can feel the sting of the bricks against my back—

_Fear._

I start to shake. Maybe he feels it, because he doesn't resist as I push him away. (_Trying to push him away—"Please, please, please, please"_—_his mouth pressed against mine—_No!_ Please!)_ And I'm trying, trying, trying to not cry, but there's a grip on my throat, and I _can't breathe_, and I want to apologize so badly, but the words aren't coming, only choked whimpers. (_Please._)

Reno recoils, aghast at the look on my face. "I—I'm sorry." A stunned whisper—but the words don't mollify me as intended. Instead, I rock back and forth, desperately trying to swallow the sobs that claw their way up my throat.

I'm locked in my internal struggle, fighting for breath, when I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. Aeris' familiar voice. "Yuffie." The couch shifts, and she sits down next to me. I shake my head, unable to speak, unable to cry, unable to breathe, so she simply wraps her arms around me, and rocks me back and forth, as she has hundreds of times before.

I begin to breathe again.

...

* * *

...

I'm stuttering for the rest of the night, and I hate it, because Reno and Aeris are the only two people in the world that I feel normal around—that I'm not scared of, that I can speak normally to.

Reno leaves soon after the incident, mumbling an excuse and an apology. Aeris doesn't question him; she hugs him and tells him I'll be fine in the morning.

She's seen more than her fair share of meltdowns.

...

* * *

...

I call Reno the next morning, to apologize, to demand answers, but am confronted with his answering machine.

_Leave your message after the beep, and I'll see if I can find time in my oh-so-busy schedule to return your call._ Beep.

I didn't expect this. What do I say?

"Reno. It's… Yuffie. I… I don't really know what to say. I'm sorry about yesterday. I…" I trail off. There is really nothing I can say.

Disgusted, I hang up.

...

* * *

...

_"There are complications."_

_"Like…?"_

_"There's something wrong with her."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"She's pregnant."_

_"And?"_

_"Hallucinations, as far as I can tell."_

_"So?"_

_"…"_

_"Stop worrying, Valentine. This _will_ work."_

_"…She's _pregnant_."_

_"So?"_

_"What do you want with her, anyway?"_

_"Don't tell me you're getting soft, Valentine."_

_"What do you want with her?"_

_"She will aid in convincing her father—"_

_"Rufus, she's _pregnant_."_

_"So?"_

_"I know your… methods."_

_"Valentine… Valentine. Stop worrying. This doesn't affect you."_

...

* * *

...

"Hello, you've reached Church Inn. How can I help you?"

"Yuffie?"

I start worrying the seams of the pillow on my lap. "I-oh! Vincent. Hi." I try to inject cheerfulness into my voice. I'd like to think I succeed.

Something about today has been off. Maybe it's the worried looks Aeris keeps shooting me—too polite to mention what happened with Reno—or maybe it's the fact that I haven't heard anything from the Turkey. I suppose my insanity has effectively scared him off. The idea leaves a sick taste in my mouth, and for a second, I miss him so badly that I forget what I'm doing, that I close my eyes and hurt with intensity of it.

Reno, my best friend through the worst years of my life. Reno, who was the one to pick me up off the streets the first time I found myself there, Reno who gave me a place to stay. Reno, my companion and partner in crime. Reno, who has always been there for me. Reno, who tracked me down and apologized after our argument, when my pride prevented it.

"Hello?" His voice, soft, not quite familiar, but it quickly becoming so, interrupts my thoughts. Oops.

"Uh, sorry. I was… thinking. How a-are you?"

"I'm doing well, thank you. You?"

"I—" Can I lie? "Great." The word doesn't come easily. I have to spit it out, but attempt to keep my tone light.

"I am very glad to hear it." He murmurs with his usual silky politeness. "I was wondering—do you have any previous engagements on Saturday?"

_Saturday. That's in two days. Am I doing anything? Why is he asking?_

"Uh. N-no?" It comes out like a question.

"Would you like to meet up again?"

"Meet up." My deadpan negates my stutters, and it causes a momentary triumphant grin. I stop fiddling with the pillow.

There's a laughing tone in his voice. "Yes. Meet up."

My distracted mind flits back to the subject at hand. Right. Why. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"You k-know what I mean—why I'm a-asking." Maybe this Reno disaster has given me the nerve to finally question Valentine about his given, and definitely undeserved, attentions.

A bit of a sigh. "Yuffie. Is it so impossible to think that I want to spend time with you?"

"Yes." My tone is flat.

"Well, you'd be wrong, then."

I'm silent. Thinking. There's that gut instinct in my head (yes, I know it makes no sense) saying _there's something else going on here_ but I don't want to believe it. Is it possible that a successful, gorgeous—my brain starts rambling off the list—man could actually care about me? In some tiny, insignificant way? _No_, mean brain fills in, and I start my worrying of the pillow seams again. "I—" But I don't want to be rude. But—wait. Who says I don't want to spend more time with him?

_What is _wrong_ with me? Argh._

"I—" _Oh, Leviathan, just answer something. _"S-sure… I'd love to."

I hear a tiny noise on the end of the line, his breathing out in some unidentifiable emotion. Relief? Annoyance? Boredom?

_Probably boredom. What on earth does he want? Why is he bothering with me?_ He distracts me again. "I'm glad to hear it. I'll pick you up at… say… one o'clock?"

_Another 'lunch date', I suppose. No dinner. This man makes no sense. _"Another s-surprise?"

I can almost hear Vincent smiling. "You could call it that."

...

* * *

...

_I sigh __after I hang up, stand, and begin to pace. "I still wish I hadn't agreed. Hadn't gone along with it. I wish—"_

Wishing is for fools, Valentine.

_I frown and turn. "This is wrong."_

So is standing by and letting yourself be destroyed.

_"My actions are entirely self-motivated. I never knew I could be so selfish…"_

You're not helping yourself.

_"I should not be the only person I am thinking about. There is an innocent woman's life I am tampering with! Heaven's sake, she's _pregnant_—it's not only one life I'm screwing around with, it's two."_

You have no choice, you know.

_"I do."_

So what do you choose to do?

_"…" My fingers begin to tap on the table of their own accord._

So stop your whining then, and stick to the plan.

_"But it's wrong."_

Since when do you care about right and wrong? If you refuse to help Rufus, you are effectively declaring war with ShinRa. Are you sure you want to do that?

_"…"_

I didn't think so. So shut up, and survive.

...

* * *

...

I sit on the couch for another two minutes, thinking over the conversation I've just had. I mean—this is a good thing, right? I don't know.

Aeris would know. I raise my head, slightly. "Aeris?"

Silence. I frown and call again. "_Aeris?_"

Still silence.

Cue groan.

I push myself off the couch and pad into the kitchen, socks making no noise on the hardwood. "Aeris?" Silence, still. _I could've sworn she was in the kitchen…_ I pout, when I find no angel. "Really?" I say to thin air. "You're going to vanish on me when I have juicy millionaire news for you? Fine. Watch me care. I don't care at all." Pouting, I open the fridge and pull out the cottage cheese, which I've been craving insanely for the past two days. I blame Baby. (I never was one for cottage cheese before. I mean. You're eating whey. Or curd. Or something. It's disgusting with a capital 'disgust.')

I continue my imaginary conversation. "Well, since you're probably in the shower, I'll tell you what's going on. Apparently, I'm up for another date with the insane millionaire whose intentions seem slightly off. Am I mad? Possibly."

I frown, and again question thin air, "What's wrong? _Am_ I mad? Leviathan! That would explain a lot." I toss some toast in the toaster, and nibble on my cottage cheese. (It feels like nibbling at least.) "It would… explain a lot…"

Maybe I am crazy.

Oh heck, I've been talking to thin air for the past five minutes.

_But,_ my mind argues_, you _know_ you've been talking to thin air. That just makes you eccentric._

_Like Einstein._

Oh, screw it all.

I smile acerbically at the ceiling. "Well, God? Am I crazy? Have I gone bonkers, gone 'round the bend? _You'd_ know wouldn't you? Well? Would that disappoint you?" Silence. _No really?_ I continue, "Any time, God, really—I'm waiting for a sign, y'know. A sign that I'm crazy or that I'm not, or that I should be smote. Any time You're read—" Surprise seizes my throat in a vise grip at the loud _crack!_ behind me and chokes the words off. I stand, shaking, like a scared rabbit for a long moment, before I realize that the toast has popped.

I shake myself, disgruntled, disgusted, and, toast and cottage cheese in hand, return to the living room.

...

* * *

...

Aeris comes down ten or fifteen minutes later, towel drying her shower-tousled hair. "Hey Yuffie."

"Aeris. You missed the conversation we had."

She freezes for a moment, while she ponders this nugget. "Uhm. Pardon?"

I frown for a minute, decide against revealing the depths of my insanity, and shake my head. "Nevermind. I'm going out with Mr. I Don't Make Sense again. On Saturday, at one, or so."

She doesn't squeal, like I expect her to, but she grins. "Good. I'm really glad to hear it."

"Yeah, yeah. Must be after a maid or a cleaning lady or something, 'cause I'm certainly offering nothing in the looks department."

"Shut up. You've never cleaned anything in your life."

I wink. "Yes Ma'am. I'll get to cleaning your room straightaway."

She doesn't deign to respond and I bob a curtsey, nodding my head respectfully and backing out of the room to be polite and respectful-like. I trip on the hem of my jeans, scuttle backwards, my arms flailing to keep my balance, and ricochet off the refrigerator and out the door.

As I hit the floor, I'm sure that all Aeris hears is a quiet, "Oof!"

It must complete the picture nicely, because it reduces her to hysterical giggles.

...

* * *

...

I wake up to the alarm, next morning, worrying about Turkey. It severely bugs me, because I'm positive that it's going to hover in my mind for the rest of the day. Why can't it just start to bother me late tonight, so I won't waste the whole day stressed about stupid things I can't change?

Groan.

Regardless, I take a very cold shower to bring myself to usual morning perkiness, and dry myself off. Another day at the Diner ahead of me.

I pause for a moment, with the towel around me, as I reach for my jeans, still slightly damp, but, in my opinion, dry enough.

I pause, because a strange thought has just hit me.

Incredibly strange.

Am I happier than I've been for the past five years?

Is that even possible, after all that's happened?

I think back to my years in Wutai. No freedom. But here I am, now, years later, supporting myself, and surviving, if only just barely. I mean, sure, I'm hungry more often than not—sure, sometimes we skip meals because we're not sure if we'll stay afloat otherwise. Sure, I have no friends, except for Aeris (_and Turkey_, coughs my mind) and I pull crazy hours to support two jobs. But… but I'm happy. Happier. Happy enough.

_I am also pregnant,_ an annoying voice in my head states, _and if I remember correctly, that was not in the original agenda._ I frown. Not my fault.

Was it, though? I still don't even know how this happened. How? How am I pregnant? It's impossible, as far as I know. As far as I can remember, I mean—I'm still a virgin…? _Just barely._ Growls a voice in my head, and I try to ignore the implication, try to ignore the memories.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm going loopy from post-traumatic stress disorder or some super rare mind-eating disease or something, and I am messing up my timeline. Maybe he (my brain stumbles over the word, but I manage to get it out) raped me that night, and—and my mind has screwed things up, because I won't… I won't let myself believe it! And now –

My brain trails off.

But that couldn't have happened, obviously, because I remember missing my first period, then my second, and wondering, and going to the doctor, because I was worried, and finding out…

But did any of that happen? Maybe my mind's just implanted the memories to hide the awful truth.

Then again, can I actually think myself (or even, my mind?) capable of such a successful deception?

No. I put a shaking hand on the edge of the sink. No, because if I start questioning things I know for fact, then I'm essentially pulling the Jenga blocks out from under me, and waiting for my already wavering mental stability to catastrophically collapse. Simple self-preservation tells me I need to stop, and go to work, and continue to support Aeris and myself so I don't end up on the street again.

Automatically, I get dressed, grab some toast from the kitchen, and leave for work, humming tunelessly to keep myself from thinking.

...

* * *

...

I get home even more exhausted—from trying to act normal, or from work, I can't tell. I've been jumpy all day—unnerved and moody. I had to stop myself from chewing out Tifa, earlier. None of this is her fault, after all.

Aeris knows me well enough to ignore my sullenness and make conversation for the both of us. She knows me well enough to recognize a lost cause.

I don't think about tomorrow. What does it matter? Valentine will be Valentine. He will have his own, unknown intentions, and if he wants to screw around with me, well, it's not like I can do much to stop him. If, by some miracle, his intentions are honest… well. Things will be different.

When my silence has proven to Aeris that I am honestly not in any mood to talk, she settles next to me on the couch, graceful as a Siamese, and turns on the television. We sit in silence for the next half hour, almost content, and in my case, blissfully distracted.

...

* * *

...

_7:39. _I wake up with the knowledge that I haven't really slept at all. Rather than wasting the time wondering how this is even possible, I slip out of bed, wrap my robe around me, and pad down the hall to Aeris' room to use her shower.

_8:48._ I watch listlessly as Aeris, yawning and blinking furiously, primps, curls, twists, and fluffs my hair into something that could possibly be called styled. We're interrupted several times by an irate customer who actually barges into Aeris' room, yelling about the lack of a hot breakfast. (Which was never advertised to begin with.)

_9:56. _I'm standing in front of the mirror, thinking when I should be choosing an outfit. Why do I have to ruin everything for myself? Why do I have to believe it is _so _impossible that a man might find me attractive, and/or interesting? _Paranoia._ I frown, and grab my favorite pair of jeans, before thinking better of it. I root through my closet, but find nothing but the yellow and black sundress that I wore last time. No. Jeans, then.

_10:50. _I nibble on some dry cereal for breakfast, and watch Aeris make tea and coffee and oatmeal and anything else we happen to have on hand. Suddenly feeling guilty, I push the bowl away. How will we buy more food with no money, I wonder? We were in the red last month, but Aeris promised we'd make up for it this month, but I know we won't. I feel sick, thinking now of all the fineries in Wutai I have access to, fineries that my pride refuses to let me benefit from. I could return, groveling, and be rewarded like the princess I am, yet I refuse. She was getting along fine before me, therefore I have to conclude that it's my needs that cause the financial strain. Even if I'm working another job, I can't support everything. So how can she call me a friend, when I could easily lift her from the situation I have landed her in? _Because she doesn't know about any of it, because you are too much of a coward to tell her, because you're scared, because you're weak_, my mind murmurs, and I feel my gut clench. I stand quickly and make it to the bathroom before my stomach empties itself.

_12:30._ The couch isn't the most comfortable place to nap, but I'm trying.

_1:09._ I wake up and sit up in one motion, disoriented for a heartbeat. What disorients me the most—not my location—is the person sitting across from me, in one of the beat-up sitting chairs. The stark difference between Vincent's shirt, so white it looks like a synonym for holy, and the dinginess of the chair throws me for a loop. I open my mouth to speak, and, sensing my movement, he turns his gaze to me. "I—" No words come, however. What do I say? What _can_ I say?

Aeris saves me, as she often does, by drawing his attention. She puts a cup down in front of him. "Here you go. You said you like it black?"

He nods and accepts the drink, not taking his eyes off me, which, yes, I do find creepy, and, putting the coffee on the table, steeples his spider-fingers. There's some emotion in his eyes, which I've always noticed to be a very odd color—a mix between maroon and mahogany. Or something. Mahogany with some crimson. Or something. Odd, but beautiful. I no longer flinch at his voice as he speaks. "I heard you were feeling unwell." Translation: I heard you sprayed chunks all over the bathroom. "I would hate to inconvenience you," Translation: I don't want to catch your cooties. "Are you feeling well enough to go out?" Translation: Please say no.

I open my mouth, fully intent on relieving him of his gentlemanly duties, but then I have a mental image of us, sitting, chatting, laughing, at some pretty little café somewhere new, somewhere interesting, somewhere I haven't been before. I don't want to give that up, as much as Baby wants to slosh around the contents of my stomach.

I decide. If he wants to see me so badly, then he can deal with me, and everything that comes with that. _Yes_, I do get morning sickness, but I'll be fine if I watch what I eat, and there's no reason to be stuck inside all day. I took off work, so I'd have nothing to do except get underfoot. Aeris probably wants a bit of time to herself. I want to feel normal again—self-deprecating thoughts and self-loathing have worn me down, and I am bitter with violently hating myself and hating what has happened, hating what wasn't my fault and hating what was, and I'm _sick of it_—I want to feel normal, and I want to smile, and I want to feel wanted, and I—I—

"No, I'd love to go." I don't stutter, if only because I'm so determined to best myself. I will _not_ think anything but happy thoughts right now, I will _not_ be anything less than cheerful, I will _not_ think anything that is remotely close to self-loathing.

He smiles and stands, offering me his arm. "Shall we, then?"

I hesitate for a second, maybe, because it feels like I'm taking a huge step—stepping without knowing where I will land. A fresh surge determination steels me, and I stand from the couch, in my ratty jeans and ridiculous over-sized wrap, looking homeless next to his exquisitely expensive, exactly tailored ensemble.

I smile confidently, as if I actually belong next to him in any universe, and place my hand on his arm.

...

* * *

...

The car I rented is low-key. Or so I had hoped when I set out to acquire a vehicle that wasn't chauffeured and polished. It was only after I picked her up the first time that I realized any vehicle here would stand out—the amount of pedestrians versus cars is ridiculous. The fact is, however, that the residents of Edge simply do _not_ have the money to drive anywhere. Taxi cabs are available—I know this, because I debated hiring one—but they're rarely used.

She hasn't commented on it though, in passing or in our conversations, so I assume that she doesn't find it too odd. I am, after all, disgustingly rich.

I shut the door for her, and get in the driver's seat, jittering with nervous energy. The adrenaline pounding through me makes my fingers twitch on the leather steering wheel, and I take a deep breath. _Calm down, _growls my mind, _if you screw this up, we're in serious danger._ This makes me pause after I shut my door.

Danger—where I am currently putting an innocent woman, and her unborn child. Can I do this? Can I actually threaten to—

I feel her inquiring glance, as I hesitate to start the vehicle. "Vincent?"

I struggle with myself internally. My selfishness wins out, and I hear the responding purr of the engine igniting. "Yes?" My tone is inquiring, and I turn my head and meet her gaze.

She frowns faintly, a quirk to her lips—something that I am quickly finding adorable—and lowers her gaze. "Nevermind."

We drive.

The frown slips back in place as I drive away, as I contemplate what I am doing—what I have done. I haven't been polished with this deception. I have purposely left holes in my story, places where one might wonder and question. I have received no such questions from Yuffie, and rather than feeling grateful that I will get away with it, I am disappointed instead. Perhaps, if she somehow miraculously guessed my intentions, I would be free from having to choose to take the wrong path. I would not loathe myself for the choice I've made; I would not feel the weight of this guilt on my shoulders.

And so I am utterly disgusted with myself. Even in wishing that this could be made right, I am motivated by my own selfishness. It is my own carelessness and irresponsibility that caused this mess, and now I am not the only one paying for it.

Yet I am too much of a coward to do anything about it.

I am silent; too busy hating myself to make conversation. However, as per the plan, I force out the words, "It's a long drive. Do you want something to drink?" She nods, and I feel something akin to a stone sink in my gut.

...

* * *

...

Vincent wordlessly hands me a milkshake, and I mutely accept it. The car jumps to life, and reverses wildly out of the parking space. Melodramatic though it may be, it seems like he's burning with some sort of dark, mutinous energy, and every one of his movements are highly aggravated. I'm not about to jump into that swimming pool of irritation and anger. I assume, if he wants to talk to me, he will. If not, I will sit and stare out the window, like I currently am, watching the convenience store fizz by. I just hope that he's as good a driver as it seems he is, and that he won't kill us with his fuming aggressiveness. I would wonder at what caused this abrupt change, but his business is his own, and if something I've done has offended him, I assume he'll let me know. Or, at least, I hope so. I take a sip of my milkshake.

I hope it's not something that Aeris has told me that I shouldn't eat, as a pregnant woman. She's told me so many different things, however, and most of the time they conflict, and it's just too difficult to keep them all straight. If I'll die from milkshake ingestion, so be it. I'd rather it be that than starvation.

Presently, Vincent breaks the silence. His tone is hard, almost unfriendly, but that could be my imagination. "You said you were from Wutai, Ms. Kisaragi?"

The question jolts me, and I feel heart skip a beat. Wutai. Kisaragi. How—what did—I never—I turn my eyes him, shaking, and meet his gaze. His eyes are flat, but there is a flicker of what could be remorse, before he turns to death-glare the road. My breath doesn't want to come, but I force myself to breathe, force myself to look back out at the road. He knows. _He knows_.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Stupid!_ You think he wouldn't even be curious about your origin? Possibly do some research? The name Yuffie is not a common name. And now he knows.

_What if he reveals my location to my father?_ I squeeze my eyes shut. Consequences. Things I don't want to think about. There is too much pain, too much guilt, too much blame to even think of returning to there again. At least, not until I've gotten myself so low, so lost, so lonely that I don't even care anymore. I feel a lump rise in my throat, but I choke it down. I will not cry. Not in front of him. I _will not _cry. I clench my fists on my lap, and angle my shoulders away from him.

So this is it, then. He wants something from me. Something he thinks I can give. But he obviously doesn't know how entirely estranged I am. How my father sent me away, how he promised to kill me if he laid eyes on me again.

This is the memory I choose of him. I choose not to remember the letters, the messages he sent, pleading. The twisting of my heart as I read the words of a lonely, broken man who wanted his daughter back. I choose not to remember how it broke my heart to see how I had broken his.

It's different now.

I have nothing to offer Vincent. The sooner he realizes this, the sooner this will be over. I feel a bitter disappointment at the thought, which surprises me. I hadn't thought I'd bought into Aeris' fairytale version of it all, but I suppose, on some unconscious level, I did. I did want it to be a fairytale.

Who doesn't want it all to be a fairytale, though? I bite back my sigh, and close my eyes. I feel so drained, so exhausted. Even my eyelids feel too heavy to open again.

...

* * *

...

I don't realize I've fallen asleep until I wake up.

My gut tells me there's something wrong, and when I look out the window, I'm shocked to find that I can't see outside. For a second, I think there's something in front of the passenger window, but I realize that the impenetrable blackness is actually the night outside the car. I look at the clock. _8:59._

What?

"W-what?" My voice is choked by the fear that is crawling up my spine.

"You're awake." I bristle at these words, because that's what _all_ the bad guys say.

"What's going on?" (And of course, that's what all the poor heroines say.)

"What do you mean?" His expression is innocently confused. It doesn't work on me. There's something going on here.

"******, Valentine! You know w-what I mean! What's going on?" I'm half out of my seat. He looks, for the first time, a tad alarmed.

"Calm down, Yuffie. Sit down."

"_Where are we g-going_?" I almost scream it.

His voice is tight, strained. "Sit. Down. I would hate for you to hurt yourself." His expression, the way he's strangling the steering wheel screams something else, _don't make me hurt you_. (_Don't scream. Don't scream. "Don't scream—I'm gonna break you."_)

I let myself fall back into my seat. I'm shaking, fingers stumbling and fumbling in my pocket for my phone—not in the right pocket. Must've put it in the left pocket—but my searching hands find nothing but a gum wrapper.

Of course. Why would my cell phone be in the pocket of my jeans, after all? Why would it be where I put it?

"W-where's my cell phone?" Though my breathing is irregular and my voice tremulous, my mind is surprisingly clear, surprisingly alert for the panic ripping at my lungs.

Silence.

Through my hyperventilating, I wonder if crying might touch a nerve, with him, but it's not even a choice anymore, as the tears start streaming down my face. "P-please." My voice stutters, quivers and cracks. He stiffens, grips the steering wheel tighter. I take this as a good sign, and heave a shaky breath. "Please. I don't know what you w-want," I'm sniffling now, "but I can't offer y-you anything."

Silence. I mentally curse him. I mentally conjure the image of strangling him. I imagine his eyes popping out of his head, and the little gurgling breaths he'd wheeze while I throttle the last bit of life from him.

It's a gratifying thought, but one I know I won't act on—I know I would never have the guts or ability to complete the action. Ever since that night, it seems, I'm doomed to be a victim.

_Don't_. I growl in my mind, through my sniffles and shakes, _don't go there. You need to focus, you need to _plan_—you n—_A stifled sob scrambles to escape, and I bite my tongue, trying to hold the tears back—try to keep them from spilling truth down my cheeks, telling him just how terrified I am.

I am frozen in semi-indecision. My brain tells me to beat him—hit him, poke his eye, kick his groin, break his leg—anything, but any movement towards him is halted by a paralyzing fear. Fear of attack, of retribution (_don't make me hurt you_), and so I sit, huddled, like the helpless little heroine in some stupid book, except the heroine is _me_, and there ain't no way Prince Charming is gonna come save me now.

Pleading being an insufficient motivation, I spend a while pressed up against the locked car door, hurling every obscenity a princess shouldn't know at him while he throttles the steering wheel. Eventually, discouraged by his lack of verbal reaction, I turn my attention to the blind world outside, the shapeless mass of black and blue and gray. I do not recognize any of it, I do not recognize the flat landscape— testament to the fact that no one will come to save me. There is no civilization, no houses, no buildings, just unadulterated wildness that rockets by at highway speeds. I am lost.

I am lost. I bite back a sob and listen to my breath catch in my chest.

Though half of my mind is telling me to stay strong, to stay smart, that I _will_ figure out how to get out of this, I feel like I'm slowly slipping away—not to a place where I don't care, because I still care too much, I still hear whispers of fear, whispers of terror—but to a place where I am helpless, to a place where I will let what will happen to me happen. And that scares me almost more than my current situation. But the fear slowly slips away, leaving me in a blank, empty space. Maybe it doesn't matter…

Or maybe, I think, when I wake up again, maybe Valentine has a bit too much experience surreptitiously drugging helpless women.

We have finally stopped driving. The clock whispers _2:43_ as I rise from my stupor; I shake off the drug-induced blurriness. I see a recognizably slender, blurred figure—Vincent—outside the car door, and a second later it opens. Gaze still fuzzy, I step out and feel my stomach flip flop as I see nothing but blurry, open ocean for miles and miles and miles. For an elated, bleary second, I believe I he has taken me back to Wutai—and contradictory to my feelings not five hours ago, I nearly cry with the thought that my father will soon sort out this mess—nearly cry with the thought that my father hired Vincent to bring me back home, that Vincent is not a cruel kidnapper. But too soon, I look around and realize the scenery is nothing like the lush green of my Wutai, the soil too rocky, the cliffs too angry. I turn to question Vincent just as the world goes black again. The sand around me explodes in a scuffle of movement.

I cry out in fear and jerk against the hands suddenly pinning my arms to my sides—struggle against the hood they have slipped over my head. I hear voices, gruff, angry voices mixing with Valentine's soft, commanding tone. I can hardly make out the words, but the words "take her" and "ship" are distinguishable, and hands push me forward so suddenly that I sprawl onto my knees. I feel the sting of rocky sand scrape my skin before the hands lift me by the arms. It's too violent to be Vincent, part of me hopes—the part of me that still wishes I could trust him. (_I can't._)

I scramble for a second to find my footing, and take another hesitant step forward, utterly disoriented. I hear the waves coming closer, and wonder, for a panicked second, if they will push me into the waters and let me drown, but I try to clamp down on my fear. If they—if Vincent wanted me dead, he would've killed me already.

I heave a deep breath and stumble over what my stubbed, throbbing toes tell me is a rock. Someone cuffs the back of my head, and in answer, I hear an almost-familiar voice cry out in anger at the action. _Vincent?_ _Or…_ It lifts my heart for a second—a rescuer?—but I am shoved forward again and stop myself from flinching as I feel bodies jostle against me. A curt, quiet voice hisses at me to shut up and keep moving. I bite back the question pounding in my head to the tempo of my shuffling feet—_why, why, why? _Why me? Why now? Why is this happening at all?

I hit some sort of obstruction, and realize, as gentler hands lead me up, that it is a ramp. _A ramp onto what?_

I try to calm myself and think logically—what has ramps? _Handicapped entrances, _comes my mind's idiotic response.

I hear a voice, different from the others—a different accent, a different grit—a smoker's rasp—growl over the others, "Hurry up. Don't got all day to wait on ya." It takes me a second to realize the angry tone isn't actually directed at me, because I hear Curt-Voice answer back, "Just keep quiet, Pilot, and do your job." Pilot? Am I on a ship? I don't think I was ever close enough to the water to be on a ship. But they're called captains—not pilots.

But an _airship_—now _that_ is piloted.

Not that knowing this helps in any particular way, because either one means that in less than ten minutes, I'll be as sick as a dog.

...

* * *

...

OOH. Shiny plot! :D More characters will be introduced!

Let me know what I'm doing wrong, yeah? (Or, possibly, what I'm doing right?)

In other news, I'm close to finishing my next drabble for my other story. xD If you want the full story, check out my profile.

Please review? It really makes my day. I have no clue what people think of this thing, and I'd rather not be wasting my time, y'know?


	6. Ignorance

_Author's Note:_ Wow. Is that like, two updates in less than a week? I can't believe it. :D

So here's the next chapter. It's a bit shorter than the others, but it's still one of my favorites. It has action! It has some fighting (just a little bit) and it has some delicious description. In my humble opinion—but hey, don't take my word for it! Read it, and tell me what _you_ think. ;D

...

* * *

...

_vi. _**Ignorance **_(Is Your New Best Friend)_

**...**

Do I know my body or what? I might look up and try to recognize some faces—this is a kidnapping after all, and faces will be crucial in nabbing the kidnappers—that's what they all say, right?—but I'm too exhausted from vomiting for fifteen minutes straight. Directly after the ship took off, my body rebelled. Now, I have no strength left, and the entire night combined has left me shaking and heaving over the bucket.

There has been a hand on my shoulder the entire time—Vincent's, if the perfectly kempt nails are anything to go by. I would like to think it's for comfort, but I am convinced by the time my stomach calms enough to allow me to settle down, that it is to keep me from escaping. But if the ship has taken off, which it must've, the way my body is in revolt, then the only way out is down. If he thinks that I'm hopeless enough to think that the long way down is an actual way out, he is seriously overestimating my desperation.

Something distracts me from my overwhelming exhaustion—a quiet voice, female, soft and gentle like Aeris'. I am too dead to turn my eyes to her face.

Her hand on my hand, the lightest of touches, and the world loses its hard edges. The ship blurs before my eyes, and I'm not too drained to recognize a tranquilizer the third time it's used on me.

This time I don't struggle. I am all too happy to accept the painless, blissful dark it offers.

...

* * *

...

I wake up for the third time. The ship rumbles and shakes like it's about to fall apart, or at least, fall out of the air. The world just _seems_ brighter, and I figure it must be dawn—since a tranq will knock you out for four to six hours. I wouldn't know, however, because there is a cloth over my eyes. Or, more technically, a blindfold.

I start to sit up, touch the blindfold, but a hand catches my shoulder and stops me. "Don't." It's the curt voice from last night. I take a deep breath, but settle back down. It scares me that I hadn't even noticed his steady breathing, noise that betrayed another's presence. Have I forgotten all the training my father forced on me? Have I forgotten everything he taught me?

I focus on my remaining senses, hoping for a clue to my location, the identity, or at least some facts, about my companion, so I quiet my breathing and focus on my environment—turn it into a game. What can I find out?

As I focus all my attention on listening, I realize something—I am not alone with the curt voice. There is another presence in the room—its breathing strained and shaky and uneven and choked, possibly with some sort of unknown emotion. Strained by trying to be invisible, maybe. Made uneven by trying to be silent.

"What do you want?" I near-whisper, my voice cracked and raspy from lack of use. I get a strong taste of bile and vomit and it makes me want to choke.

"Shut up."

And thus ends my conversation with Curt-Voice.

I take a deep breath and dig my thumbnail into the tip of my index finger to distract myself. Make a list, I tell myself. What do I know?

I know that Vincent has taken me somewhere.

I know that Aeris would have expected me to call her last night, therefore I know that Aeris knows that something is wrong. I know that Aeris will be worried about me.

What do I think? I think Vincent thinks he'll get some sort of ransom for me. Which he won't. My father couldn't care less. (So I tell myself.)

I think—

Without any warning, the airship shakes violently, and I feel bile rise in the back of my throat again. Nausea slams into my like a rolling wave, and I barely have time to roll on my side before my stomach empties itself on Curt-Voice's shoes.

He swears violently and jumps up, but apparently not fast enough. He swears again, more colorfully this time. I hear his heavy footfalls as he exits to clean himself up, I hear him hissing under his breath as he leaves. I'm shaking, half nausea, half fear, imagining him coming back, imagining punishment. Quiet footsteps cross the room—I try to calm myself, _it can't be Curt-Voice, it's too soon for him to be back and he's too angry to be quiet. _I feel a presence settle next to me, and realize that it must be other person in the room. They are silent except for a quiet, purposeful intake of breath. I translate it as an intention to speak.

But silence. Instead, I feel a soothing touch on my shoulder, a slight pressure. Hands too large, too rough to be a woman. His thumb rubs distracted circles on my arm and in my current condition it's a much-appreciated comfort as the ship bucks and rolls.

The door bangs open. "We're landing." Curt-Voice informs me—or, more likely, he addresses my companion. I sit up, expecting to meet resistance, but I am not stopped. My nauseated stomach responds irritably.

Breathe, I tell myself. If we're landing, then this will be over soon, and I'll hopefully get some answers. And food. It's an afterthought, but regardless of how upset my stomach is, it growls so loudly that I can have no doubt that Curt-Voice and the newly dubbed Invisible Man have heard.

The floor under me stops shaking, stops shuddering. I'm not startled when I feel someone grab my upper arm and pull me to my feet. I see a split second of blinding light as they remove the blindfold, but they quickly drop another hood over my head. I don't struggle when they lead me out the door. Anywhere is better than here.

Time passes strangely when you can't judge my location or see your surroundings. They lead me here, there, throw their arms out to stop me. They push forward and pull me back, steer me around obstacles and cause me to trip. The journey is a void, a blackly winding road of baffled stumbling. But disorientation, so it seems, has a strangely soporific effect and I let them push me like an uncharacteristically complacent, though blind and sleepy, mule.

It isn't until I hear a car door open do I even realized we've left the ship. It must not be as bright out as I imagined, or I certainly would've noticed the light filtering through the hood. I take a stumbling step into the car—much higher than I thought it would be—and the door slams shut behind me. Three more doors open and close, and I hear the engine roar to life.

When I say roar, I mean _roar._ This is no purring Jaguar, this is a Jeep, or some sort of off-road vehicle. My theory is verified as we bounce away, the ride too jerky and uneven to be a luxury car, or for the vehicle to be on any sort of real road—it's a possible clue to my location, but I've given up any real hope of knowing where I am, who has captured me, and what they want.

I think I actually fall asleep, because when the doors open again, it's entirely unexpected and I jump. Again, I am pulled from the car, and half-pushed, half-shoved toward a still-unknown destination.

It isn't until we stop, until I can hear the silence—unbroken except for the whispering breathing of my captors—pounding in my head, do I realize that we're inside. The hiss of the shutting doors behind us confirms it. The panic comes suddenly surging to life in my chest again, thick fingers choking my throat, squeezing my lungs—Oh _God,_ what do I do? Trapped, captive. The men are flanking me on either side—I can hear them breathing—There's nowhere to go. My mind is running in the same circles that have kept me busy for months. A broken record, a helpless voice in the back of my mind whispers, _what do I do what do I do what do I do,_ coupled with, _there's nothing I can do._

Why? Why did I just let this happen? I've long since given up hope that this will have a happy ending, so why didn't I _try_ to escape before? Why didn't I fight it?

I close my eyes under the hood. Shaking, I'm remembering the last time I fought, the results—his bloody gore on my hands as I crawled down the street, sobbing, choking, waiting for the police or God or my father to come and take me away.

I heave in air, strangling the whimper in my throat before it escapes. I will not be a victim. My resolve strengthens as I clench my hands into fists. I will not let them have their way with me. I tense up, feel the hand on my arm shift. I will fight.

I hear a breath—close to my ear, on my right—and react automatically. Years of training, preparation for this particular moment, abandon me as I submit to pure, blinding red rage. The hand on my arm is dislodged as I bring my left fist across my body to deck him. The attack is a complete surprise and I know it's the only edge I've got. I hear his jaw pop, feel his nose break, hear his surprised grunt followed by the muffled thump of his body hitting the floor next to me. I feel his feet kick against my shin as he jerks and rolls on his side, panting from the agony. Fighting blind is easier than I thought it would be—my hearing compensates for more of my sight and knowledge than I expected.

A hand digs into my shoulder, thick, strong fingers pulling at my skin—I assume it's Curt-Voice. It nearly brings me back to the victimized state of mind I had slipped into. I can imagine the bruises forming as I jerk away from the physical and mental pain. _Fight_, growls a voice in my mind. I struggle against his grasp, pull back, but the grip stays strong, and I am forced back towards my opponent. I use my momentum to add extra force to my punch as it slams into his chin. My hand screams in pain as it connects and I feel the impact rattle up my elbow—it's never come in contact with a jaw as rock hard and unforgiving as his—but it works, and I feel him release me. I stumble back two steps, frantic but waiting. Rusty though my moves are, I remember pitch black sessions of wrestling with Shake and Gorky—fighting multiple opponents in the dark.

I recognize the voice as he curses, somewhere to my left. It _is_ Curt-Voice. I feel a quiver of fear—he'll be ruthless, I know, but that only adds to the fire inside my chest. It's all-consuming, the leaping panic and hopelessness fuel to its ever-hungry pyre. Complacency is dead, burned to ash, and in its place, an urgent need has risen—a need to be free from the prison of blindness, a need to have control over what happens to me.

I take a deep breath. Listen for his movements, listen for clues to his intentions—other than the obvious recapture me and punish with pain. I hear a shuffle from behind me, a telltale whoosh of air. I duck, and his fist flies over my head. What I do not expect is his sudden weight colliding with me.

I'm thrown off balance and stumble forward a step—only to be tripped up by the man on the floor. His feet tangle with mine—intentionally, I can tell—and I hit the ground. I recognize linoleum by touch and by sight through a tiny splinter of sight at the bottom of the hood—I have no doubts now that we are inside.

I am lifted roughly to my feet, an arm around my neck and hands restrained. "You little *****." Curt-Voice wraps his leg around mine, trapping me completely. I shake, strain, heaving, as the fight slowly drains from me. I am struggling against a juggernaut. I hear the click of flat heels approaching, and go still, trying to assess the situation from my blinded state.

A soft voice, not Vincent's but still hauntingly familiar, speaks, and I feel Curt-Voice still, listening. There is a hint of disgust in the newcomer's crisp accent. "You. Go get yourself cleaned up. I told you not to go easy on her—and don't think I didn't notice. _Go_." There is a shuffle as the fallen man stands up. He inhales through his mouth, pained and shaky, and I hear his uneven footsteps depart. I grin a savage smile behind my hood. At least I gave him something to remember me by.

I am taken by surprise as the hood is yanked roughly off my head. The light, bright, angry, harsh, immediately blinds me, and immediately screw my eyes shut I drop my chin Curt-Voice's arm, which is still around my neck. My chin is jerked back up as the newcomer crosses the distance to us. I crack an eye open a fraction. My face is turned this way and that, the way a judge examines a show dog. I try to wrench my jaw from his grasp, but he just chuckles and puts both hands on the side of my face. My skin crawls from his touch and I try not to let my fear and revulsion show in my eyes. I keep my squinted gaze steady and hard—brokenness masquerading as strength.

He finally steps away, chuckles humorlessly. "Well, Valentine," he murmurs in that refined, mocking tone, "You sure know how to pick them." I open my eyes a bit wider, and am encouraged when they don't immediately complain.

I sense, more than hear, an uneasy movement behind me, and realize that Vincent has been here the entire time. The idea sticks like a barb in my throat, and eventually settles like a stone in my stomach. _You were really taken for a ride. So _stupid_._ _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The man runs a finger through his short blond hair, and smiles at me. It's more of a sneer, snide and derisive. "Please pardon the delay—we are simply waiting for the good doctor to arrive."

_Doctor?_ The idea isn't a pretty one. As of now, I have no clue as to their plans, but on top of not wanting to know more, I can't imagine a doctor being a good thing. Still, I have to figure this out. My voice is dry, a raspy whisper, and I taste stale bile as my cracked lips form the words, "W-what do you w-want? Did m-my f-father send you?"

After a passing look of vivid disbelief, the man laughs. It is quiet, malicious, and it too makes my skin crawl. "I repeat, Valentine—you sure know how to pick them. But you never told me how _dense_ she was." He directs his gaze to me, a sardonic twist to his lips that violently disagrees with my mood. "Stupid girl. Don't you know who I am?" I twitch at his words—stupidly allowing the insult to reach me. Quickly I look him up and down, trying to hide the inspection. (It doesn't work and he grins when he sees.)

Dressed in a suit that rivals Vincent's in cut, style, and most likely price. Handsome except for the constant arrogance in the blue-green eyes. Lazy blond hair effortlessly falls into place with a flick of his head. A smirk that screams of self-centered superiority is playing with the finely shaped lips. The fingers on his right hand tapping against his thigh speak of someone who is used to getting what he wants when he wants it. The image, not physically unpleasant except for circumstance, is unfamiliar, and I frown.

This equates an apparent victory in his eyes and he takes two quick steps forward, bringing him closer than I appreciate. His next approach is slower, languid—arrogant eyes never leaving mine as he takes another step forward to bring us face to face. I feel the heat of his hand hovering inches above my hip. I take a deep breath, heart st-stuttering—not from the proximity of an admittedly attractive man, or my hormones (which are ignoring the situation), but from remembrance of the last time I was trapped between a man and a brick wall. I frown and clench my fists, working up the nerve to spit in his face. It is then that I realize that Curt-Voice has stepped back; my hands have been released.

I don't waste a second. I hurl a punch at his groin and am shocked as he catches my fist mid-flight. The pretty boy can apparently defend himself.

He lifts my fist to a slightly more appropriate place, flat-out grinning now. "Feisty too." His gaze shifts to the right—behind me, to where Vincent must be standing. "Valentine—I've said it before, _but_—" He doesn't finish his sentence. A voice—an oily, slimy voice—interrupts him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I do believe you wanted me for something?" _Oh. "President"—this has to be Rufus Shinra._ I vaguely recall meeting him as a young, bored child at one of my father's social functions. He's twenty, or twenty-one then—my age, I realize, or close to it. The thought is utterly disconcerting.

Instead of examining the source of the voice, I chance a quick glance behind me. Sure enough, Vincent is there, standing next to a dark, tanned, muscular man sporting sunglasses, multiple earrings down his left ear, a severe frown, and a bloody nose. Coupling that with the bruised jaw that mimics my bruised hand, I decide it must be Curt-Voice. He's bald, but the color of his eyebrows and stubble is a dark, dark brown. The suit he is wearing is obviously cheap—the uniform of a grunt. A long metal stick hangs at his waist—an ASP, if all those weapons classes are serving my memory correctly—and I shudder inwardly, suddenly glad our fight had not continued for long. I can't remember what ASP really stands for—aggressive… static… something—but it be summed up to mean: "AAAGH"-scream-when-poked. I turn my examining eyes from the electro-rod to the man next to Curt-Voice.

Vincent is as tall and as pale and as tragic-looking as ever. His crimson eyes are downcast, studying the white-gray linoleum—all the better to display his defined cheekbones, the aristocratic nose and those eyelashes, thick and dark, shielding the abnormality of his red eyes from my sight. Too tall for the space, it seems, he's leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, long legs crossed. The image is unusual—never have I seen Vincent display signs of or exude anything other than pure confidence and assured knowledge. His gaze jerks up to eyelevel at the new voice, and feel a jolt of fear shudder up my spine as I stare straight at the murder in those eyes. It takes me a moment to notice how his gaze is directed over my shoulder, not at me. I take a deep breath. It physically hurts to look at my betrayal in the face, so I turn back to the newcomer, the subject of Vincent's apparent hate.

I wish I hadn't. The man standing next to who I now know to be Rufus Shinra is the human equivalent to a cockroach. His eyes are large, protuberant, black and shiny. His glasses, metaphoric antennae that help him process the world, are thick and perfectly round, framed by silver wire. His hair, brown—the color of mud—is unwashed and unkempt, pulled into a ugly rattail. His long once-white coat is covered with caked, brown stains of God-knows-what—an ugly carapace—his protection from the outside world, his shell that keeps him safe, concealing from the rest of the world the fact that he has no spine.

I know that first impressions are often entirely wrong, but I am struck by an almost preternatural suspicion that my first thoughts about this man are absolutely true—that this vile creature is basically evil embodied.

How do I know? Because the first thing I hear him say, glassy eyes locked on mine, is, "So, I will have to remove the problem of her child, then?"

...

* * *

...

The rest of the encounter is something of a nightmare. Fear—my constant companion. Naively, I had thought that after that night on the streets, fear would never be alien to me again, but now I find hundreds of thousands of nuances that send new shivers down my spine. The thought that I am not the only person in danger, the thought that there is another life—a life I am responsible for—placed into jeopardy makes my knees weak. The ideas that my mind whispers cruelly to me have my heart pounding wildly. I find hundreds of new ways to fear—my throat choked, vision blurred and tunneled. Terror, clutching me in its fist. Panic, wrapping itself around my shaking legs. Yet, underneath it all, I find that something _has_ changed. Though I am completely terrified, utterly petrified, I am still numb, body and soul. I can't fight the feeling of drowning, sinking. I didn't know it was possible to be so scared, yet not care.

I don't have the energy or inclination to even attempt to eavesdrop on the quiet, private discussion that followed the good doctor's question. Both Rufus and he are talking too fast for my detached, buzzing brain to comprehend. Now, after standing under Curt-Voice's strict guard, I can feel my limbs tremble, my hands clenched into useless fists. Useless. _Useless, useless._My stomach is empty and strained, still feeling unsettled from the airship's malevolent bucking and rolling. Vincent has unwillingly joined the conversation, standing as far away from Cockroach as unaided hearing will allow, but I refuse to look at him again.

It seems, in the moment, that their talking has lasted for several hours, but it's abruptly ended as Rufus takes my arm and drags me next to him. His face is drawn into an angry scowl, the snarl of a man who has been denied what he wants, a man who has lost an argument. For a panicked second, I recognize something protective, something of ownership in the way he manhandles me—but God apparently has darker plans in store for me, because he instead transfers my arm into the Cockroach's slimy grasp. "Take her, then. Let me know what you need."

The doctor gives Shinra a greasy smile and a nod. It sends revulsion slithering down my spine, and a shivering sense of foreboding pounds in my head. This cannot be good, I decide, as Curt-Voice moves to my other side. Cockroach gives my arm a jerk, and starts walking. "Come. We have work to do." I unwillingly move my legs, fighting the feeling of wading through the molasses of my numbness.

"Rude!" Curt-Voice looks up. "Stay with them, will you?" Rufus drawls, tone careless and decidedly uninterested—a ruse, I can tell—a balm for his irritated ego. "Help the good Dr. Hojo… _control_ her." His lips curl into a smile. "I'm sure you're aware of what she's capable of, eh?" His eyes are focused on the man's cut lip and bruised jaw.

I see Curt-Voice nod stiffly, and realize I now have two names to put with the faces. Rude—did his mom ever know while naming him!—and _Dr._ Hojo, though I honestly think Cockroach serves him better.

My arm is nearly wrenched out of its socket as Hojo gives me a glare. "Come _on_." I feel the panic again—_don't go with him!_ Every sense in my body is screaming against it, screaming against compliance. But Rude's presence, a threatening leviathan, hangs over my shoulder like a vengeful ghost. The familiar trapped feeling closes in on me. There's nowhere I can go, nothing I can do. _Leviathan, give me strength_, I pray, and allow myself to be dragged down the hall. I bitterly resist the urge to glance back at Vincent—still trying to reconcile the fact that I know he is not my ally. He is my enemy—possibly my greatest enemy now. The thought is a fist of anger in my gut, a feeling that contrasts vividly with every other panicky terror that roils in my core.

The bit of my concentration that isn't taken up with hysterical thoughts or making sure my feet don't trip over each other, is examining my surroundings, hoping for a clue. I don't find any. The building I'm in could be a hospital, except for any particular medical details. It could be an office, it could be a mental asylum. It could be a military bunker. There are doors leading off of the main, white hallway. Each is thick and heavy looking—over half of them have key pads that require a passcode to open. There is a small square window in each of them, a double pane of glass at eye height with crisscrossing gray metal grids over them. Being only 5' 2", there is nothing for me to see through the door's windows except more equally white ceilings.

It isn't until we reach the end of the hallway, take a flight of stairs down, down, down, down, do I realize the real, if not intended, purpose of this place.

It's a prison.

...

* * *

...

I have revised my opinion. This building is not a prison—it is actually Hell masquerading as concrete and iron.

Rude is guarding the entrance now, I know. It would be impossible to tell his expression, his reaction, because the black sunglasses would obscure any clues his eye might give.

I'm lying flat, shivering, staring up at a blinding white light. It's easier not to open my eyes, though, easier to pretend my dignity is still intact, easier to pretend I can't feel the tears slide from the corners of my eyes to drip on my ears, hair, and the table I'm laying on.

Hojo had led us into the middle of another white room—this one outfitted a doctor's office, where a woman had been waiting for us. The woman hadn't introduced herself, just looked me up and down and told me to undress.

The following argument that had ensued left me with a smarting handprint on my face and more bruises on my arm. I had started crying halfway through, dignity shattered, shamed and revolted by the look on Hojo's face as he perched on the desk across the room.

The woman, though brusque and indifferent, is now efficient as she examines every inch of me, measures and weighs me. I am soon sitting on the table, dressed in a white shirt and equally white pants, hugging myself and shaking while she's writing notes on a pad of paper. My eyes are still shut, trying to obliterate the memory of those last ten minutes, but my mind promises me that I will never forget that greedy, sleazy smile on Hojo's face as his eyes shamelessly roamed my nakedness.

I shudder at his touch as he takes my arm to lead me to the next horror. He sees this and his lips twist in a vile smile. "Come, darling. The tour is not over yet."

I don't think I stop trembling until we reach the next location—a long hallway with evenly spaced doors on the left side. They each have a keypad and a flap, like mail slots. There are no windows. Foreboding throbs in my temples as I get the nasty feeling that I know what these rooms are used for.

My instincts are proven true as Hojo inputs a code into the first door, using his body as a shield, or you know I would've memorized that code in seconds. The room inside is barren, too white, almost blinding, but I don't have a chance to study it as I'm shoved inside. "Enjoy your lodgings, little Princess." Hojo sneers, as the door slides shut.

Silence, as his footsteps fade.

Silence, as I listen to my heart pounding.

I take a deep, shaky breath, and examine my surroundings. This is a cell if ever I've seen one. I feel like I am enclosed in the womb of an alien spaceship—everything is white, everything is unfamiliar and unfriendly. There is a ledge jutting from the left wall, two, two-and-a-half feet deep, five-or-so feet long, and as I eyeball the dimensions I realize it is barely long enough for me to lie on. This will be my bed. There is a toilet in the corner—if it can even be called that. It is little more than a glorified hole in the floor.

I sigh, and sit down on the ledge's unforgiving surface. It is cold, just like the rest of the cell, and I wrap my white-clad arms around me, looking up and around. The walls are unnecessarily tall, but it does little to allay the feelings of claustrophobia that close in on me. I tiredly push them aside and work up the energy to look closer for a more thorough examination. The cell mocks me, seamless and spotless. I slowly run my fingers along the seams for the door—impenetrable, I decide.

My shaky hopes for escape are murdered as a thorough searching of the cell reveals… nothing. Not a speck of dust. No dirt. Literally nothing. There is just me, the shelf, and the four walls.

Hours of hungry silence and painful solitude later, the whitewashed walls collapse in on me, and sleep finally claims me.

_Reno takes a deep breath and rubs Aeris' back, as she sobs into his chest. He is stroking her hair absently, staring at the desk where Yuffie once stood. He can summon a thousand images of her— Yuffie, absorbed in _Pride and Prejudice_, eagerly turning page after page, reading passages out to Aeris, as they both scold Lizzy for not "jumping Darcy's bones right then and there."_

_Yuffie, leaning on the front desk, tapping her fingers and pursing her lips, blowing little puffs of air to move her shaggy black bangs, complaining that they're tickling her nose and poking her eyes. He's always loved the color of her eyes—a grayish purple, often mistaken by others for plain gray, or sometimes brown._

_He can remember her, vibrant, as vivid as summer, as light as spring—more alive than sunshine._

_But though he wants to remember her the way she was, shining and beautiful—the way she was before the argument, before the fallout, he also remembers the ot__her Yuffie—scared, fragile. As brittle as fall, as cold as winter. Changed beyond recognition. He can remember his shock, the twisting of his gut to see this new suspicious, guarded woman. Life—those months spent alone—hadn't been kind to her. (_He_ hadn't been kind to her, his guilty conscience condemns.)_

_"Three weeks!" Aeris cries suddenly, pulling away from him. "She's been gone _three weeks. _Not a sighting, not a word from her." Her hair, auburn and thick, usually twisted back and sleekly elegant, is spilling around her shoulders. Mascara tears have painted black streaks down her cheeks, and he feels a clenching somewhere near his stomach just looking at her. _Your fault_, his mind is whispering, _you've done this to her._ He can't deny it._

_Shaking her head, her gaze drops to her hands, twisting in her lap and worrying the hem of her dress. Her voice is barely a whisper as she questions him. "Why? Why would someone do this?"_

_The only answer he can give is a squeeze of her hand—a lie that everything will be alright when he absolutely knows that it can't be._

...

* * *

...

**Boo!**

Ta-ta! Chapter six, ladies and gentleman. Give it a round of applause. (Reviews? Wink wink, nudge nudge.)

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you did, let me know. :D Aaand lemme know about any grammar errors, pleeeease. If there's any parts where you think the writing could be improved, please tell me. I love editing my work.

_Don't expect another chapter for a bit. I'm only... three-quarters of the way through it, and you guys know I'm _such _a slow writer. xD_

**EDIT: **_10.17.11 _Updated-minor editing for some more deliciousness.


	7. Know Your Enemy

_Author's Note: _Boom.

...

* * *

...

_vii. _**Know Your Enemy**

**...**

_If there is a place I want to be less, it probably isn't on this plane of existence, because this is absolutely the last place on blessed Gaia that I want to be. I hear his voice before I enter, and I feel the usual feeling of disgust settle in the pit of my stomach. If there was any way to avoid this meeting with Hojo, I would. I wouldn't be here if I had any other choice, but I do not; I steel myself and enter the room._

_I am not surprised by the décor. Cold and white. It's a mirror image of every other area in this building. Even I, who have never felt any affinity to color, find myself longing for any bit of vibrancy to cut the monotony of the never-ending monochrome._

_I sit in a white chair, pulled up to a white table, and avert my gaze to the white ceiling. The smirking, mocking thought comes to me that this is probably the closest I will ever come to seeing Heaven's waiting room. I snort and try to ignore my mind._

_So far, I have been silent, letting Rufus and Hojo have their discussion, but I finally focus on the President's face and pay attention._

_On my left, Rufus is lounging, eyes sharp and calculating, listening to Hojo make his case. Having just joined the conversation, I am still unaware of the topic. The good doctor is seated across the table from us, on the edge of his seat, talking feverishly. His eyes are bright and there's the sheen of sweat on his brow. He's a coiled spring, wound tight and agitatedly waving his hands, trying to communicate his point through his anxiety._

_As I focus on his words, the idea slowly becomes clear._

"_She won't survive the child birth. She is too weak, she has no will. She'd rather die, I think, than continue living. The injections I'm giving her help, but not enough." His voice is shrill from anxiety, and as greasy as his hair—just as unpleasant as his long, crooked nose. I spare him a glance, and return to studying the ceiling. I do not want to contemplate what I am hearing._

_Rufus snorts, shaking his head. "Then just deal with the child. I'm sure you, with all your _experience_—"_

_The doctor springs to his feet, true agitation showing on his face. "With all due respect, Mr. President, I've told you _time_ and _time_ again! This child—"_

"_Is a child, and therefore not as important as the life of a valuable political hostage! There is no question—even you must see that this entire operation hinges on her being, if not whole and healthy, at least alive!"_

_Hojo shakes his hand in front of his face, waving the words away. "But you don't understand! You have no clue the potential of the opportunity you have been given! If you would just let me explain—"_

_The president growls like an animal, stands. There is the slow anger of endless arguments repeated simmering in his eyes. "With all due respect, _Doctor_," the word is spat, sneered—venomous—"I fail to see how this child is of even the least import, as it threatens the _life _of my _hostage!_" He bangs his fist on the table, eyes narrowed, breathing heavily. "You. You will remember you answer to _me!_ You will remember that you do _your_ job, and maybe if you manage to do _that_ right, I _won't_ reveal to the proper authorities just how far you've sunk! You have no clue how easy it would be for me to topple your little empire—your stinking, moldering empire built on the screaming agony of poor, tortured souls. I'm sure that the proper authorities would be more than interested in hearing what monstrosities you've created in that hellhole you call a laboratory!"_

_Hojo hasn't moved. He is staring at Rufus, now a mixture of boredom and calculation visible in the purse of his lips, the angle of his chin. Defiance is visible in his eyes. "You know you need me." He must be content with the answer he gets, a stony silence, because he continues, "Do you want to use her as a weapon against her country? A ransom? A hostage?" He gives an oily chuckle that ends on a bitter and angry note. "Then I assume you want her_ alive!_ And if you _do_, you'll try _listening_ to me!" He spits the words out, jumping out of his chair._

_Out of the corner of my eye I see Rufus make a violent move towards the scientist, and I stand also. "Stop." My tone is cold, and the quiet threat concealed within stops Rufus in his tracks. The vicious gaze is directed towards me now, but I refused to be cowed. "We're on the same team here, are we not?" I all but spit the words, matching Rufus, glower to glower._

_We glare each other down for a long moment before he slowly settles, easing himself back into his chair. "Of course, Valentine." His tone is falsely light, calm and soothing. "Of course we are. We all have the same objectives here, do we not?"_

_As if there could be a more blatant lie. We are all in this for different reasons, although selfishness may be a common, prevailing trait. Selfish for pursing more wealth and power when there is no want and there are children starving in the streets. Selfish for harming others for the sadistic high, for ruining people's lives for the pleasure of it._

_Selfish for putting your own needs, your own safety, before the safety of a young mother and her unborn child, for being the one who put her there in the first place._

"_Hojo." Rufus' voice is tight, but polite, "Why don't you explain again why exactly this child is of _such_ import?"_

_The doctor smiles, a smile lacking in both warmth and sincerity that conveys more violence and anger than pleasure, and sneers, "Gladly." He stalks the room, stopping in front of a camouflaged, also white bookcase, head tilted. The spines, displaying titles and authors probably long dead and long forgotten, are stroked lovingly as he chooses his book._

_The book itself is old, but not nearly as old as the words contained inside, I know. I do not need to observe this book closer to know the letters spelling the title in simple black on its front cover. _Leviathan: Legacy of Wutai_. I recognize the book from my father's collection—a collection donated to ShinRa at the time of his death. I find myself suddenly bitterly, violently regretting this fact. How many times had I seen my father studying, if not this particular book, then others just like it? To see that book in that worm's hands…_

_Hojo seats himself at the table again and flips through the thick pages with reverence, licking his lips unconsciously. Rufus waits in impatient quiet, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his fingers._

_The doctor finally locates the desired page. He exclaims a quiet, "Ah!" as his finger finds a particular line, thick with clustered Wutaian characters, too old a dialect for me to understand without careful study. "Here we are…"_

_We sit in taut silence as the doctor's lips move soundlessly. Finally he nods, and looks up. "Here it is, Mr. President—"_

"_About time…" mutters Shinra petulantly._

"—_here is the answer to your question. To the question of why this child is so important. Right here, the text describes a legend, the legend of Nairiomo, Tenth God-Empress of Wutai—a distant relative of the current emperor, I believe." He waits, glancing at our faces, perhaps expecting to see recognition or, incredibly optimistically, interest._

_I have the greatest doubt that he finds either._

_This seemingly does not perturb him and he launches into his story. "Nairiomo Kisaragi ascended the throne at a rather turbulent time in Wutaian history. The armies from Cann—a city now all but ruins, but I believe you can still find some of their temples in the southern reaches of Wutai…—had taken residence right outside of the country. They were quickly becoming surrounded; it was a blockade of sorts._

"_The nation itself was caught in a violent and bloody civil war; the clans Maeda and Kisaragi locked in a vicious political and military battle. Rightful claim to the throne was given to the Kisaragi, but there was talk of Nairiomo—who was not a Kisaragi by birth but who led the country in the stead of Hirohito, her husband, after he was killed—being unfit to lead the country in such a turbulent time. _

"_The Empress was a wise woman, steady in temper and rule, and she believed she could rule the country fairly in this time of unrest. By all accounts a gentile and elegant woman, Nairiomo had no problems finding supporters—she was well loved by her people. But there were some who were deceived by the Maeda, who preferred bloody glory to a golden peace._

"_Nairiomo and her supporters knew action must be taken, quickly, to avoid a full-blown division of the nation. Were this to happen, they knew it would ruin the country, knew they would tear each other to bits and leave the Cannanites to gleefully pick up the pieces. Their course of action was clear; an appeal to their deity was in order._

"_The people of Wutai, as I'm sure you know, worship the Water God, Leviathan. There are some who say that the back the great Leviathan actually forms the continent on which Wutai is located. In the Temple of Leviathan, directly across the Village from the Pagoda—where the Empress and her party resided—Nairiomo and the ten holy priests gathered and fasted for a week straight—seven days, seven nights—beseeching and imploring the water god to reveal to them a sign of his will, a token of goodwill to Nairiomo's reign."_

_I glance at Rufus. While I fully enjoy history and truly love exploring Wutaian culture, I doubt the president shares the same passion for it that I do. As expected, Rufus' eyes are slightly glazed and his chin is resting on his fist. Hojo must have noticed this, because he stops his story telling. Rufus, after a moment, notices the silence, and blinks, straightening and fumbling for words. "Oh, that's how it ends?" He asks, his face red. As he takes in our expressions, he smiles wryly. "I suppose not. My apologies, Doctor. It has been a long day. Please," He motioned to the book with a careless hand, "continue."_

_Hojo's lips twist in a sneer, but he does not comment on it, continuing his story instead. "On the morning of the eighth day, Nairiomo and the priests emerged from the temple, exhausted from their week of fasting, but radiant in their enlightenment. Nairiomo claimed she knew what she must do. Leviathan had come upon her, on the seventh night, and instructed her to perform the all-but forgotten ceremony, the lost Ritual of the Mountain._

"_At this point in Wutai's history, the Ritual had only been performed twice, with disastrous results. That period in Wutai's history—two-hundred and fifty years before the reign of Nairiomo—was known as the Black Years, a time of trouble and floods and death—a sign of Leviathan's displeasure. So, needless to say, the Empress' proclamation was met with much controversy. But, despite what misgivings or complaints they may have had, the officials and citizens of Wutai stood quiet and watched as their Empress retired to Da Chao—which was the name of both Leviathan's sacred mountain and the temple that was built into the living rock."_

_Rufus cuts in, with a highly impatient groan. "Just cut the story time short and just tell me what I need to know." His lack of interest, or perhaps, lack of reverence, rankles me and forces me to speak. My tone is sharp as I nearly snarl, "I'm sure he would be able to tell you that much quicker if you would not interrupt him." My glare cuts into him, and I'm sure he can acutely feel the depths of my displeasure by the quick snap of his mouth shutting._

_Starting directly where he left off, as if he had not even noticed the disruption, Hojo continues. "For another week, the Empress stayed there, guarded and constantly watched, but never contacted. For a week straight, she prayed, fasted, performed the necessary rites and petitioned the Great Leviathan for intervention." Hojo pauses here, eyes filled with a sort of reverence. His next words are nearly whispered. "The Leviathan heard. When the Empress re-emerged from the mountain, she announced that she had been blessed by the Great Leviathan Himself. She declared that Leviathan had come to her in a dream, bearing the form of her late husband, Hirohito. In this dream, they lay together. After, he told her that she was with child—His child, the child of Leviathan." Hojo pauses at a disbelieving snort from Rufus. "Mr. President, you have something to add?"_

"_Well, she was obviously mad."_

_Hojo ignores this. "A month later, this was confirmed by seven of the royal physicians. The queen was indeed still a virgin, but, miraculously, pregnant. At such an obvious sign of approval, the Maeda were forced to renounce their claim to the throne and bend to the will of Nairiomo._

"_However, during this time, the Cannanites had closed in. The blockade was now complete, and vicious Wutaian winter was setting in—"_

_Rufus lets out a strangled noise. "Just cut to the chase. Honestly, what you're saying is mad, and the less I have to hear of this, the better." I myself am watching Hojo closely, knowing now what he is implying. My own belief is ranging from somewhere between "he must be insane to even suggest this" and "that's it." I need time to fully process this._

"_Fine." Hojo huffs, now speaking in a flat and bored tone. "For her heroic actions in driving the Cannanites back, Nairiomo was awarded God-status, the tenth emperor and third Empress, to ever achieve it. The birth of her son, Hirohichi, in the late summer heralded a time of plenty. The country was at peace._

"_The child was extraordinary. Trained at a young age in politics and war, he excelled at both, proving to be a charismatic leader and a born warrior. Nairiomo groomed him for the throne, for his twenty-first birthday, when he would then lead the country. She died at the age of forty—exactly twenty-one years after her son was born, on the day he would ascend the throne—when a Cann raiding party attacked the Pagoda._

"_Hirohichi was an extraordinary leader, truly gifted in the tactics and the art of war. After his mother's death—much to the disappointment of many historians and archeologists—he led a raid on the Cannanites and utterly annihilated them, all without losing a single one of his men. When he and his men left the city, there was nothing left—no citizen of Cann left alive, no temple left standing. Not a single artifact has been retrieved from those ruins. This was his revenge for his beloved mother's death. His reign was known as the Golden Years of Wutai, a time of honor and glory._

"_Since Nairiomo, there have been two other cases of the Ritual being performed. In the first case, three hundred years after the reign of Nairiomo, the queen who performed it was killed—struck down by the wrath of Leviathan. Her name has been all but erased from the history books. In the other case, Nagaya, thirtieth Empress of Wutai, was blessed with a child of Leviathan. Her reign, and then her child's, was also a peaceful, plentiful one." The doctor trails off, smiling. Rufus has leaned forward in his chair and his hands are balled into fists._

"_What you're saying is that you, a—a supposedly rational man of science, actually believe in this… this… fairy tale_ crap_?"_

"_I believe this because there is hard evidence that proves it. The Wutai—" Hojo shakes his head, knowing that Rufus wouldn't know the old name for the citizens of Wutai—"Wutaians did not—do not keep lax records. They are meticulous bookkeepers and disciplined historians. If they say it happened, it was so."_

"_But this is ridiculous. Surely, Vincent, you don't…?" The president trails off as he glances at my face. His expression turns incredulous before he chokes back a laugh and runs a hand through his blond hair. "Gods, Valentine! You, of all people, should know better than to… You actually believe this _madman_? You actually think that our little princess," it is needless to mention how much I hate hearing him call her that "is carrying the child of a myth? The child a false god? Does that not tempt the mind slightly toward the unbelievable?"_

_I sigh, unwilling to discuss this with him. "While this may or not be true for this case, I do believe that it has happened before. As Hojo said, if it had not happened, or if there was a shadow of a doubt that it truly occurred in this way, the book would say so. Therefore, as a possible theory, you would be a fool to discount it so readily, simply because your mind cannot comprehend the possibilities beyond the finite and mundane."_

_Rufus' eyes narrow. "The book shows only what the people at the time thought, not what truly happened. How old is this text?"_

_I glance at Hojo. He's looking at me, as if to check the date. "Many of my colleagues would date it as… six to seven hundred years old."_

"_Yes! My point exactly. Seven hundred years ago, I don't doubt that they would go to any lengths, even re-writing history, to protect the honor of their beloved Empress. How can we trust this as fact?"_

"_It has been corroborated through several other texts, all varying in the date of their creation. They all tell, generally, the same story." Hojo shakes his head. "The Princess is still a virgin, yet she is pregnant. Can _you_ explain this?"_

"_Easily." Rufus cracks an insinuating smile that makes my hands clench in anger. I force myself to relax._

_Hojo seems to enjoy his immaturity less than I do. His eyes are also narrowed now. "Mr. President, you do not have to believe me, but hear me well. If you harm this child, you _will_ come to regret it. You desire power? You lust for riches? This child can give you both, in plenty. You would be a fool to pass this offer by."_

_By the way his eyes light up, I can tell the doctor is finally speaking his language. Rufus settles back in his chair, observing Hojo through eyes of contemplation. Eventually he leans forward and heaves a breath. "Do you know how much this will cost me?"_

_The brightness in Hojo's eyes tell me he senses a victory. A greasy smile steals across his ugly features. The simpering breath is back in his tone. "Only a minimal amount, I assure you, Mr. President. I will need the right equipment. I will need formulas from my laboratory in Junon. I will need a trustworthy assistant—that Shalula you assigned me is too soft. She has too much empathy—I can't trust her to carry out what needs to be done."_

"_What are you planning?"_

"_I need to make sure the Princess is strong enough to survive the childbirth. If her body refuses to cooperate, we will bend it to our will. I will _make_ her strong enough." Memory stirs and I stiffen, stomach clenching as I recognize from bitter experience the intent behind those words._

"_Do I care to know how?" A small smile is playing at the corners of Rufus' mouth; a sardonic note graces his words. He is well aware of the violent atrocities of which Hojo speaks._

"_I'm sure Vincent could tell you." The scientist stares directly at me, a broad and obvious challenge. A red haze fills my vision, bloodlust begging to be met, violence yearning to be free, claws I don't possess longing to tear into his flesh. The choice is before me—launching myself across the table, ripping Hojo's body to shreds and using his head as a doorjamb, or surviving this whole encounter. I choose life, choose to stand and leave, anger forcing my movements jerky._

_When I am standing in the hallway, I allow myself a moment to turn and rest my head against the door. I spare a few breaths to calm my anger, clenching the doorknob in shaking hands. My contemplation then turns to the enormity of the sin I have just committed. I shudder as I contemplate the horrors I have just condemned Yuffie to, the torture I will have forced upon her. I am disgusted as I know that I have neither the courage nor the selflessness to prevent this tragedy. To know that even after all that has happened, I still choose my own wellbeing over what is good, what is right, sickens me._

...

* * *

_..._

_Hours have blurred into days, weeks, months, and that fairy-tale thought—that fairy-tale belief, utter belief, that someone will come and save me has wilted like my hope. The days are slippery, impossible to keep track of, and they blend together in my white prison. My memory has betrayed me, and I forget the hours, ignore the minutes, helplessly watch the seconds run from me._

_Time has no meaning to me._

_The days have slipped away, leaving nothing but solitude and somber thoughts. It's impossible to know how long I have been caged. It's impossible to know how long it has been since I had hope of rescue._

_Human interaction is an unhappy memory. Hunger is my constant companion, a vice grip, a hollowness in my heart. I am living for Baby, now, for_ you_, though you will never read this. I am living for the knowledge that I am not entirely alone, knowledge that there is more than unfeeling whiteness in the world. I—_

I glance up, frozen by the sudden noise. The sound of footsteps, slow and sinisterly meaningful, cuts through my concentration. My fingers fumble and I drawn an accidental line over the careful characters I am sketching on the page. The simple noise, the click of flat heels, transforms me into a flurry of silent, furious movement. I slide off the metal bench, fingers fumbling desperately for the hidden ledge where I store the only two items I now own. My breath is short and scared in my own ears and I drop the pad of paper. It hits the floor with an incriminating slap, and it sends my heart into my throat. Finally, the pen and notepad are stored, secret and safe for now, and I straighten, heart racing wildly, just as the door opens.

The sight of the Cockroach always fills me with a nauseating mixture of fear and revulsion, and his slimy smile does nothing to abate my extreme apprehension. There's a sadistic light piercing the blackness in his scheming eyes, and in that moment, I know he has more than his usual torture planned. My heart drops to my toes as my nearly-empty stomach flip flops and threatens to empty itself.

His visit, in and of itself, is not an unusual occurrence. From what I can tell, on my odd four hour on-and-off nap schedule, he comes every day around the same time. He leads me to the same dark room. He asks me the same questions—questions of home, questions about my past. Always about Wutai. He has quizzed me extensively on Leviathan and the Wutaian customs.

Quizzed, I say, except I've never given him an answer. Excluding the first time I saw him, the first day I was brought here, I have never spoken to the Cockroach. As if acknowledging him would be acknowledging that all hope is a lie, I have refused to speak, instead staring at the ceilings, walls, floor, or my hands, twisting and clasped in my lap. This used to goad Hojo into a fruitless rage, but now he attempts to wrest the answers from me through various means. Means like threats—threats of torture, threats of pain. Threats he sometimes carries out.

He has also tried experimental truth serums, which haven't worked in the slightest besides giving me a slight headache, bribery—false kindness doesn't go as far as you think it would—and silence. The last was the most unnerving, but possibly the least useful for him. These small victories—the simple fact that my knowledge is my own and I can choose with whom I share it—are some of the reasons I can still stand in the morning.

Now, Hojo doesn't speak. He simply grabs my arm and drags me from the cell. I now know not to fight; I have learned he knows many ways to cause pain without any weapons.

I glance back at my cell as the door shuts, almost longing to be back in the tiny room. I am also wondering if there will be another gift waiting for me when I am finally allowed back in there.

The gifts started… a week, maybe? after I was captured. They were small at first, two pieces of chocolate. An origami paper crane, crafted with obvious skill and utterly beautiful. I'd had to flush it down the toilet, next morning, lest it be discovered. At that time, I hadn't known of the secret ledge under my bed.

The gifts became larger, then—more daring, perhaps?—things like the pen and paper, perhaps the only things that kept me from truly losing my mind.

I lose my train of thought as Hojo jerks my arm around as he takes a sharp, unexpected left and I stumble, stifling a surprised noise.

I expect him to take me to the "interrogation room," as I have dubbed it, but he instead drags me to a room I do not recognize.

Upon entering, a knot of worry clenches in my chest. The room is largely square in shape, and though it feels rather small, the cramped feeling might come from the many tables pushed against the walls. The walls, like every other room in this place, are white, but these are a dingy white—unwashed, streaked with moldering dirt and other types of filth. I can also see in dark corners and uninspected crevasses something that looks suspiciously like the dark, brownish red of long-dried blood. I realize these walls perfectly match the Cockroach's lab coat, and figure this must be his particular room.

The thought doesn't reassure me.

On many tables there are metal trays and I'm put in mind of the dentist's office. Or, perhaps, a doctor's…?

"Sit." Hojo orders, releasing my arm and motioning to…what? There are no chairs; there are seemingly no flat spaces at all in the room. His voice is strangely muted and distorted by the walls, and I stand there, unsure and distrustful. He growls and all but drags me to a metal table—almost like a gurney, like something they would wheel a dead person around on. There is a metal tray on top of it, and he literally tosses it away. It sails until it collides with the furthest wall, clattering and landing loudly on the floor.

The Cockroach gives me a slimy smile, and I don't bother trying to keep the look of disgust from crossing my face as I perch myself on the table. He sees it, but he chuckles as he disappears through a concealed doorway. I had been wondering why that space had been cleared, why there was no table in front of that part of the wall. Even down to the dirty streaks, the door is perfectly camouflaged.

Before I can even take advantage of being unobserved, he's back, syringe in hand. I am used to him giving me injections, every day from what I can tell, and I hate them. I hate the wobbly feeling I get in the pit of my stomach, the headaches that pound in my temples. I open my mouth to protest, but it's in my arm before I can form the first syllables.

"Trust me." His sly smile tells me to do anything but, "You'll thank me later." I immediately feel nauseated, but I'm sure that's more of a gut reaction than my body reacting to whatever he just injected me with. I put my hand to the crook of my arm which is now throbbing.

There's a bang—the sound of someone's fist hitting the thick metal door. I jump like a scared rabbit and freeze, but Hojo simply chuckles. "We have a guest. Forgive me, Princess." He's in a bright mood. It worries me. There's no reason for him to be happy that I know of and anything that would make him happy is bad news for me.

My stomach drops into my toes when he exits. The door swings open and takes its time closing, so I can see clearly who had knocked on the door. _Vincent_. My gaze is redirected to the ceiling, but that lasts about three seconds. The moment the door fully shuts, I sit up straighter, craning my neck to see through the window. Vincent seems to be shouting. He's up in Hojo's face, towering over him, his expression speaking of a murderous intent. He seems to be furious. I say "seems to be" because I can't hear a thing.

That means that the room must be sound-proofed, both to keep sound from entering and to keep sound from escaping. But to keep what kind of sounds from escaping, I wonder? I glance again at the dried blood on the walls and the morning sickness mixes with some sort of blind panic. Oh. Those kinds of sounds.

I direct my gaze to the metal trays. They're all empty, except for one. I can see glinting metal shapes on a white paper. Unwillingly, cautiously, I scoot off the table. I give the door a wide berth, nervously glancing, searching for signs of Hojo's reentry. When I see none, I cross the room to the table. I don't recognize any of the tools on the tray, but I get the general gist of what they're used for by the dried blood on nearly all their tips. I gulp a breath of air, trying to condense the panic in my chest to a measureable amount. It doesn't work.

_Get out! _My brain is screaming at me, an endless repetition of primal instinct. It takes me a second, but I'm soon stumbling towards the camouflaged door. _Need to get out._ When I reach the door, I realize that escape isn't possible. _Get out!_ There's a small square of metal and electronics where a handle would be. I recognize it from other places in this hellhole—a thumbprint scanner. I can't fake that.

_But_, the thought comes wildly to my panicking mind, _in the movies, all the heroine has to do is breathe on the scanner and the oils from the finger will… _It's unlikely to work, but it's worth a shot. I bend down, cast a glance over my shoulder and put my lips near the scanner. I try to keep my shaky breath even as I exhale, not too moist. A bleeping heralds a result. I'm shocked when it lights up with color, but surprise quickly morphs to disappointment when I see the color is red. Red, as in, "Heck no."

I choke on my disappointment and am about to stand when the color turns green before my eyes. The door swings slightly open in front of a totally bewildered me. _No._ I tell myself, shaking my head, even as I'm pushing the door open. _No. That's just… you gotta be _kidding_ me. That doesn't happen…_

Of course it doesn't. I'm standing face-to-face—not actually face-to-face, because for the first time ever I've met someone who isn't a child who is shorter than me—with a chick in a white lab coat. She seems almost as shocked as I am. My brain belatedly tells me that it must have been she who opened the door.

I immediately notice three things about her. One—she's _incredibly_ short. Shorter than me, and I'm 5' 2", but her face tells me that she's at least as old as me. Two. Expression bored, she's carrying a clipboard in her hand and a syringe in the other, so she has to be affiliated with Hojo. Three, she has a gun in her waistband and her arms, though thin, are muscled, so it's a good bet to think she can defend herself.

My palm catches her in the face before she fully comprehends my being there. I'm not sure if I break her nose or not, but either way, I'm going easy on her. I can't hit chicks shorter than me with my full strength. It just feels weird.

She stumbles back against a (what a shock! _another_) metal table pushed against the wall. The vials and notepads on it jump from the impact and several concoctions hit the floor with the pinging of breaking glass. I don't worry about Hojo hearing it however, as I slip through the door and assess my surroundings, since I would bet my right hand that this room is also soundproofed. The room is long and narrow, more like a hallway than anything else, and packed full of the doctor's supplies and necessities. I see a row of computers and multiple monitors fifty feet down the hall to the right and a door far to the left. I push past the closing door, give the girl a shove to keep her off balance, and dart to the door and the far end of the hallway.

It too, has no handle—just a fingerprint scanner. I curse, but am distracted as I see the light turn green. I know what that means—I'm not stupid—and I quickly backpedal. To my right, a passageway branches off from the hallway, and I throw myself down it, hoping to get away before Hojo enters the room.

The hallway is long, dark and unlit, and I can barely see where I'm going. I get the vague notion of things to either side of me, but if they are doors or tables, I can't quite tell. Behind me, I hear Hojo's surprised tone, high and unpleasant, "Shelke! What happened?" Fear clenches in my gut and I am spurred on to faster speeds.

These speeds prove to be a bad idea as I blindly ricochet off the end of this hallway. I hear the voices getting louder, Hojo and a female tone that has to be Shelke, getting closer. Choking down a panicked gasp, I throw myself to the left, desperately hoping there will be a continuation to the passageway, or another door. I feel nothing but blank, solid wall. A jagged sob tears itself out of my throat before I can stifle the noise, and I turn around, staring hopelessly down the hall.

With the light behind him, I can see Hojo approach, slowly, unperturbed, which can only mean one thing. He knows there's no way out from here. The thought makes me sick with fear. Despite the backlighting, I can still make out the sadistic grin on his features as he stalks closer… closer…

The cat finally reaches the quivering, shaking mouse, and claims its prey with glee.

...

* * *

...

I am pacing back and forth, fully shaking from the anger. I catch sight of me in the mirror and grimace, disgusted at the madman who I see staring back at me. His eyes are wide and wild; instability stirs and churns the chaos in those crimson depths. There's a spark of malice visible in them, like the light of a train hurtling towards you in a dark tunnel. His clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them, hair messy and unkempt. He looks nothing like the calm and collected CEO of a multimillion dollar company who I saw in the mirror five hours ago. I turn away from the looking glass and lean on the white desk next to me.

_I knock softly on the door, unsure if this truly is the right path. Do I want to know? My mind keeps asking. Do I really want to know this?_

"_Come in," comes the command, and I slowly push the door open._

"_Ah, Valentine!" the President says, smiling languidly from his chair and looking as if he's actually pleased to see me. "Sit." The word is a command with no room to disobey. "To what do I owe the honor?"_

_I sit uncomfortably, frowning. "What… why are you doing this?" I curse myself for the falter in tone and diction. I could not make myself ask the question I had intended to—_what are you planning to do with her? _I catch his blue-eyed gaze with mine, and detect a faint hint of surprise. It is quickly masked with boredom._

"_I thought you knew, Valentine. Only ShinRa can take care of the planet the way it needs to be taken care of. Gaia needs ShinRa." I snort, but he continues, unperturbed, "Wutai, with its natural mako fountains, is a valuable resource—a resource that ShinRa needs if we are to have global energy dominance._

"_Wutai's petty emperor-king, Godo, refuses to align himself with ShinRa. Meanwhile, the vultures descend, the scavengers sneak closer. We need power if we are to protect Gaia from these threats." He leans back and cocks his head, considering me. "Wutai is spitting in the face of the planet by defying us, but it is no matter. Godo will soon bend when we put his precious princess in peril. He has squandered much of Wutai's gold and glory—there is nothing left to lean on. With the heir to the throne threatened, he will submit to our will."_

"_Threatened?" I am still frowning, not liking a word of what I hear._

"_Oh, it will be just a show—but he won't know that. No, he will truly believe her life is in danger. And if he still doesn't agree to our terms, well then. She is expendable."_

_I raise my eyebrows. "Isn't she your meal ticket? The key to your plan of 'global energy dominance?' Wouldn't her death destroy all your planning?"_

"_If Godo is truly selfish enough to threaten the life of his daughter, the only heir to his throne, then no, she is no good to me and will be disposed of. I will then simply use our combined military power to crush the nation."_

_My heart constricts at the offhand way he tosses that statement around. The president of the ShinRa Electric Power Company is young, I know—twenty-three or twenty-four. He knows nothing of horrors of war. Neither do I like the use of the word "combined," as if he expects me to willing go along with this scheme. I shake my head. "A war is no way to win the populace's favor."_

_He shakes his head. "Then __I'll control the world with fear. It takes too much to do it like my old man. A little fear will control the minds of the common people; there's no reason to waste money on them."_

I am struggling for control of myself, struggling to control both my anger and my panic as I feel that control slipping away. Inside, there is a fury raining against my fragile grasp of myself, desperate to be free, desperate to bring retribution to the true subject of my hostility. The image of Hojo's head smashed like a melon comes unbidden to my mind, and I close my eyes against it, shaking my head. _No_. I take a struggling breath, truly scared now. _I need control. I need to control it._ But I already know that control will evade me this time.

_The phone on his desk beeps and Shinra holds up a hand. "A minute." He requests, as he picks it up. I sit in silence as he listens to what the caller has to say. The tone on the other end, though warbled through the phone's receiver, is high-pitched and still completely recognizable. My hackles rise at Hojo's voice._

_Rufus is nodding, smiling absentmindedly at the wall. "Good. Everything is on schedule? Today's the day, then? Alright, Doctor. Good luck." He barely notices the sound of my chair skidding backwards as I stand._ Today's the day._ I have no doubt that he does not detect the sound of the door sliding shut as I exit. _Good luck.

_I have no time to contemplate my course of action. Feral instinct guides me to Hojo's laboratory and I barely hesitate outside the door, slamming my fist into it. Presently, it swings open, and behind Hojo's unwashed hair, over his shoulder, I see worried-looking Yuffie perched on a gurney. The image vanishes as the door swings shut, but the fear in her eyes has burned itself into my retinas._

_For the second time today, someone fakes enthusiasm at my arrival. "Oh, Vincent. How good it is to see you! I'm so honored that you'd take the time to come and personally wish me luck, though I can't imagine why you would come to see such a lowly geniu—ahem, doctor like me. Surely you have important things to be doing?" He has positioned himself directly between me and the door._

"_Don't you dare." I hiss, glaring down at him. "Do not pretend that you do not know why I am here."_

"_Oh, but Vincent, I _assure you_—"_

_The growl that comes from my lips is not entirely human, and Hojo shrinks back, recognizing the power behind it. The power that he created. I relish in the split-second of terror that passes through his shiny black eyes. I barely recognize my own voice, deep and resonating, as it thunders over him. "You should know better than to underestimate me, little worm. I could crush you in less than a second, crush you like the bug you are, and I would more than enjoy it."_

"_Now, let's not get unreasonable—"_

"_Shut up! You will not touch her—do you hear me?"_

_He snorts, a smirking light entering his eyes. "I'm not entirely sure that your suggestion would be as per the plan…"_

"_Screw the plan. I will not let you ruin her life like you did mine."_

"_Who said anything about ruining her life?"_

"_I am more than aware of your _ways_, how you plan to—"_

"_She will die, Valentine. The girl that you are so _obviously_ fond of," he growls this part, standing straighter, "will _die_, unless I choose to save her life. I am the only chance she has left, whether or not she knows it. But I know that_ you_ are aware of this fact. I know that _you_ are aware of the fact that if you stop me now, you are sentencing her to death. If this is what you really want to do, Vincent, then be my guest." He spreads his arms, smiling. "Smite me—stop me from damaging your little princess."_

_My voice catches in my throat as I open my mouth to respond. To respond how, though? What can I say? I know what he says is true. Fury rises in me, fury at Hojo for placing me in this position and at myself for not knowing the correct path. My fist clenches but finds no worthy target. _Well, what the **** did you expect_? Whispers a voice in my mind, mocking. _Storming down here with nothing but emotion and guilt driving you, and what?—you expected to find a logical argument? _A soft snicker._ Face it, Valentine, you have no case against him, and you knew that up in Rufus' office.

_He smiles at my lack of response. "That's what I thought. Now be a good boy and make sure I'm not bothered. I have a lot of work to do."_

I am clenching and unclenching my fists, my breath coming faster as I recognize the pain that has begun to claw at my insides, claw its way up my back. My shoulder blades scream in agony as the skin tears, as the façade of my control utterly cracks. My knees hit the floor, and I growl. As I curl in on myself, I feel one last sense of my pure terror and its elation—a glorying in a newfound freedom—before the black claims me.

...

* * *

...

_I look down at the scene in the canyons below me. Rocks jut out of the ground, breaking the monotony of the dry riverbed, contrasting with the monster's vibrant blue hue. The thing—the monster, I suppose—has a gelatinous quality to its largely square dimensions. In fact, it looks something like a cube of Jello. If that cube of Jello is currently chasing your mother and father and intent ingesting them whole. And then devouring you._

_I am frozen, petrified, as I watch it approach. Before me, two figures running, terrified, tripping and stumbling over the rocky terrain. To my back, I can feel rocky fingers poke and prod me, mocking the scared little girl, an ever constant reminder that I am trapped._

_At first, I thought I was on a ledge, watching the chase from above, but I soon realize that I'm actually in the direct path of the pursuit. The nightmare holds true to its name, fixing me in place, cementing my feet to the rocky soil. Though my legs refuse to bend to my will and start _running_, they are quite content to shake and tremble, and I feel my knees knock together once or twice. I want to scream out to my mother—the figure I know is my mother, though her face is purposefully blurred by lack of memory—but my vocal chords are as paralyzed as my limbs._

_The cube slides closer, moving with a surprising and terrifying speed. I watch, in the throes of agony, as it overtakes my father. He screams—a final call that's drawn out in a tortured and echoing cry. A visceral sickness rises in my gut as I see the flesh stripping from his bones inside the translucent blue cube, a gory mess of the red of blood and the__ skeletal white. The jaw of his skull is still opened wide in a silent wail. Black surrounds my vision, and I know I'm going to pass out. I beg, I pray silently in my mind to pass out. I _want_ to pass out._

_Perversely, the darkness will not claim me—it simply feathers the edges of my vision, and I am frozen, forced to stand and watch as it reaches my mother. "_Yuffie!_" Her cry is desperate and confused as she blames me for not coming to her aid._

_But as suddenly as my father was devoured, I realize my mother is no longer there._

_The creature has stopped moving, yards away from me. The bloody gore that was my father is now gone, along with my petrifying fear. Yet I stand still._

_Slowly, delicately, the mass changes shape. I watch the beast form long, graceful arms; my terror has been replaced with a mild curiosity. I see the cube elongate, the faint beginnings of a female's torso visible through the shifting mass. A head forms, a woman's face, but generic and masked. Still, though generic, the features convey a regal and melancholy air. In my dream's eye, I can see them in perfect detail, from the saddened twist of her perfect lips to the cosmic infinity swirling in her eyes. There's a slow drip of blood from the corner of her eye, a mockery of tears. The features, though formed out of viscous blue gel, are somehow strikingly familiar, but I can't place them._

_Gone suddenly is the canyon, a laboratory in its place. I take the scene change in stride and observe my surroundings. In front of me, a tank is filled with some sort of viscous liquid. I am both drawn to it and repulsed, torn, as I want to approach and also want to flee. My fatal curiosity wins out, and as I take a step toward it, I notice the now-solid figure is suspended inside. There is no mistaking the figure of a woman, softly curved, but there is also an obvious strength in her body—something deadly. Some ancestral instinct is telling me that she is a dangerous predator, even though her arms are bound behind her, and every step I take brings with it a whispering echo that tells me to run away._

_Her hair reaches the top of her uncovered breasts—if you could call them that, for her body is utterly alien and I have never seen its likeness on a woman before—and it floats behind and around her. The pure white of it contrasts with the deep blue of her skin. Intricate patterns, swirls and twists, are ridged into her skin itself, and her features are even more striking than I first thought._

_My approach takes me nose to nose with the tank. Her eyes are open, but I can see no recognition of life within them. The black, swirling infinity is gone, instead, glowing red lights with no visible pupils. Her gaze is pointed downward, giving her face and features a closed, angry cast. I tilt my head, frowning. Though the shape of her body is mostly human, there can be no doubting that she is not of Gaia._

_As it is a dream, I do not question the impossible fact—for I _know_ it to be fact._

_Her gaze meets mine—though perhaps "meets" is the wrong word. As soon as I notice her eyes on mine, there can be no doubt that she was staring me in the eye all along. The red cast of those glowing orbs freezes me—fixes me in place like the prey I suddenly know I am._

_A sharp, stabbing pain in my chest—just to the right of my sternum—jolts me away from the tank. I put a hand to the place where it hurts, shocked to then see the hand stained with red. Before I have a chance to fully comprehend it, the same pain strikes again—a stabbing in my head._

_Rebounding off the confined metal laboratory's walls, I hear my own cry echo loudly. There is a digging, blinding pain that starts at the base of my neck, but quickly radiates to my forehead. I have an intense feeling that this phantom pain is not part of the dream, that this is real life bleeding through into my unconsciousness._

_Frantically, terrified at what could possibly cause such hurt, I wake up._

_Well. I _try_ to wake up._

...

* * *

...

Boom. Chapter seven. Named after an awesome band's not so awesome but still okay song. [The American Idiot on Broadway version is so much better than the 21st Century Breakdown version.]

**/note:** whenever it is spelled "ShinRa" I'm referencing the company. When I write "Shinra" I'm talking about the person. Just to clarify.

Anyway. It's continuing! I definitely see a plot! :D Awesome.

I hope you guys liked it. C:


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